Out Of The Rain
by Ellie 5192
Summary: Four years after the end of the war Lucien Blake shows up at his father's house with his young daughter in tow and a lifetime of hurt to unravel, and Jean Beazley is there to help this broken family put its pieces back together, and maybe even find love of her own. AU.
1. Chapter 1

_**A/N:**_ _This image has been in my head for nearly a year, but I couldn't find the time to write everything else that needed to go around it. Now I'm committing myself to it in the hopes I actually get the motivation to fic again. Tally-ho!_

It was very dark, and very late, and outside the house a summer wind was scratching leaves against the gravel of the driveway. A deluge was going to start at some point during the night; upstairs a window, slightly loose in its frame, rattled and shook as each gust of wind pushed against it. But it was warm; it was late November and on the cusp of summer, pollen and dust making the air thick and almost unbearable in the back of the throat, and causing an untenable scratch in the eyes. Even inside the house the air felt heavy and oppressive, and the impending inevitable downpour was a welcomed thought.

The Doctor had gone to bed early, as was his usual habit during the week, and Jean was left alone to fold the laundry sheets in the quiet of the living room, with Bing Crosby softly crooning through the record player, just loud enough that she could hum along to the familiar tunes.

Even now, it was still a struggle to get used to the trappings and the space of this house; to be accustomed to the endless rooms both used and untouched, and her ability to fold laundry in the relative safety of the lounge rather than trying to race the weather outside. The war had been over just gone four years, and she sold the farm and moved to this grand house almost three years ago, and yet still it caught her by surprise to have so much space, and so much freedom. When not assisting the Doctor in the practice, her time was her own; Christopher Junior was away with the Army and already rumbling about Korea and Jack was in the city, though what he was really getting up to was anybody's guess. She worried for both of them, for different reasons, but they didn't need her and they weren't in Ballarat any longer. There were no crops to tend, no fences to be mended, no children underfoot. It was just her and an older gentleman who was kind but circumspect, his own wounds running deep, the two of them politely skirting around each other in this big and empty house.

Some days the peace was a salve on open wounds, helping her heart to quiet after so long not knowing what happened to her husband, after struggling to run the farm on her own, after raising two sons who she loved with all her heart and yet couldn't seem to reach. Some days the three years in this house felt like nothing at all, barely a glimpse of time, yet offering her moments of reprieve at every opportunity.

Other days the quiet threatened to cloud her mind and send her mad, the struggles of her old life like a shadow in the corner of her vision, and she knew any moment the Doctor would come in and name her for the fraud she truly was; some days the quiet was a curse, and she longed for the constant exhaustion that farm work could bring.

Time moved differently when there was money. Oh, she still mended and sewed dresses for her own savings, and she was frugal with the Doctor's daily accounts, never indulging at the stores though he had told her time and again to buy anything she saw fit for herself or the house. But if a shingle came loose, a handyman was called for and paid in the same day without question. If the butcher had fresh steaks, two would be cooked for dinner that night without guilt. The Doctor paid her a fair wage that covered her position as both his secretary and his housekeeper and she didn't always know what to do with it, and so it sat untouched in an account that was all her own. _Idle hands make the devil's work_ , her mother used to chant. As a young woman it sounded like an excuse to keep her motivated in helping around the house and keep her out of trouble. But now, with her own scars and heartbreaks knocking at the edges of her mind begging for attention, she understood what it really meant. It wasn't the devil's work she was worried about; it was the weight of her past pulling her under like a stone in a pond should she give it even a moment's consideration.

Tonight was a night for her mind to race as she pondered what direction she would travel next, and though she hadn't yet delved into true melancholy, the weather and the music and the late hour made her mind foggy with possibilities and questions and anxieties. Was three years enough time to stay, and if she didn't where would she go? What other options were there for a woman such as herself; upstanding in the community but bound to a life of service, as was her place and the place of her father and mother before her? This job was a Godsend and her conditions were fair and if she wanted, if circumstances would allow it, she could easily stay here for the rest of her life. But to put her fate in the hands of a benevolent older man whose own health had recently started to decline seemed wasteful and asking for trouble, and part of her wondered if she would be better off looking for housekeeping work at one of the hotels in town, although that would leave Doctor Blake in a terrible position. There had never been many whispers in town of anything untoward; Doctor Blake was a respected member of the community, and people still remembered his late wife and his grief of her passing. Between his and Jean's good reputations, nobody dared suggest their arrangement was anything more than convenient for the two of them.

But she still wondered sometimes, on nights like tonight, if she would ever marry again; if a suitor would one day turn a corner and capture her still-fragile heart and take her away from this life the way Christopher's death took her from a life tending the farm. Part of her hoped so, one day, maybe; another part screamed against such an intrusion when the loss of Christopher still felt so close to the surface and the tenor of his laugh still rang in her ears on the days she missed him most. Nights like these left her all out of sorts, not least because she detested running her mind in these useless circles.

Her musings were cut short suddenly, making her start. All at once a dozen sounds echoed through the house – the clouds above finally broke free, and from nowhere a summer storm rattled against the windows and rumbled overheard, the electrical thunder and lightning cracking and booming around them so close she could taste it in the air. The sudden onslaught of rain battered the roof and the wind pushed it into the windows, and for a second she wondered if the house would give way under the weight of it.

Barely a minute of that racket had passed when another knocking sounded out, this time from the corridor, echoing through the house; a harsh and firm tap at the door. Jean lowered the sheet she was folding to hear it again, and then again it sounded, desperate this time and distinctly someone knocking to be let in out of the weather.

She put her sheet over the back of a dining chair. _At this hour_ , she thought, but walked briskly through the house all the same.

What she found on the other side of the door was so strange – so out of place and unreal – that somewhere in the back of her mind she knew it would change her life forever. But in that moment her thoughts were blank, as she stared at the handsome stranger who was taking shelter on the porch, and blinked twice. He was slightly dripping, having obviously been caught in the beginnings of the storm, and his hair was breaking free of its style because it was wet through. His clothes were old and a bit tattered, the shirt white but the pants obviously military issue. On his shoulder he had an Army rucksack, so like the one Christopher – both of them – had hoisted on his shoulder as he boarded the bus, and for one heart pounding moment a million possibilities flashed through her mind. He didn't wear a jacket, and Jean's first uncharitable thought was not regarding the temperature but that perhaps he didn't even own one.

But it was not the dishevelled hair or the old clothes or even the hopeful, pleading eyes of the stranger that caught her the most. It was the child in his arms. Hair as black as pitch, no more than seven years old at a guess, her limbs wrapped around him in trepidation and fear, though whether from the storm or for their destination, Jean couldn't be sure. The stranger's missing jacket was draped around the child to protect her from the rain, and it slid to the ground as he shifted his grip of her. Overhead the storm cracked again, lightening flashing somewhere high above the clouds, the wind whipping around them, and the small girl squeaked her surprise at the intrusion and burrowed further into the man's arms.

Jean took stock of the image in a second, cataloguing, assessing, determining if it was safe for him to be here, who he was, what he wanted. Hi beard was unkempt but she could see he was handsome, somewhere underneath the scruff and the drawn skin and baggy eyes; there was something familiar about his face yet she couldn't place him.

But the child. The child was the enigma to her. The child belayed any preconceptions she could conjure just by looking at the man alone. If it had only been him at the door she may have left him be, closed the door in his face, bolted it shut for good measure. She would not be standing with her mouth agape, her hand still holding the front door open, blocking his way to the house, bordering somewhere between hostility and pleasantry. If he was a doctor's patient it was far too late at night and he should attend the hospital surely, and if he was a degenerate she would send him on his way. But in his arms was a child, her skin a shade darker, her hair straight and midnight-black, holding him tightly with her entire little body, and her face tucked against his neck though his jacket had kept her dry, and so Jean remained frozen and uncertain and confused.

The moment lasted barely a few seconds, and yet their eyes locked on to one another and a million questions and answers rolled between them. If she was confused then he was utterly baffled, and if not for the absurdity of the moment she might have laughed at the two of them, mouths agape like muddled fish frozen on the front porch.

A door opened in the hallway just beyond her right shoulder.

"Jean, who is i-"

Thomas Blake, bleary-eyed and in disarray, his dressing gown tucked tightly around him, stepped forward and then stopped dead. His face drained of all colour and his step faulted, and for a moment Jean was certain he would topple over. But he didn't fall; he took a tentative step forward.

"Lucien" he whispered, eyes like saucers.

"Hello Dad"

Just as Jean was putting all the pieces together she was barrelled out of the way of the door; whether Thomas reached for him or Lucien stepped inside of his own volition she couldn't be sure, but suddenly the two men were in front of each other in the hall, not quite touching one another, the child between them like a shield.

For a long, tense moment nobody spoke, and so Jean closed the front door and leaned her back against it, staying out of the way but watching everything with the eyes of a hawk, looking for trouble or uncertainty, or a sign of what she should do. From her position she caught a glimpse of the child's face over Lucien's shoulder. Large black eyes peaked through the curtain of her hair, and though she hadn't been crying the girl was obviously terrified. The only thing Jean knew about the Doctor's son was that he had been in Singapore at some point during the war; anything further about his goings-on or where he had been since was a mystery to her, and would have remained so except for the fact he was now standing in their hallway dripping on her carpets with a child in his arms.

His daughter, she wondered, or a stray that he picked up in his travels like her son once did with a mangy puppy from the street? The girl was Chinese, or looked it to Jean, but the trust – the way Lucien's hand never left her back as he stood and faced his father for the first time in almost fifteen years – told her that regardless of their story or their true relationship the girl was Lucien's child now.

The silence lengthened to an unbearable point, the wind still lashing outside.

Finally Lucien spoke, his voice raspy with emotion. "I didn't know where else to go" he said, and the girl's face tucked back against his collar and out of Jean's sight.

"I wrote to you" said Thomas. His voice was thick with restrained tears, his eyes angry and hurt and relieved all at once. "You sent all my letters back"

"I didn't have anything further to say" said Lucien. He didn't sound contrite. He sounded defeated, and sad. Jean had to wonder just what transpired between them to have sent the son so far away from his father for so long. She wondered if they were like Jack and Christopher, so alike in their nature that they drove each other mad, until Christopher wasn't there anymore and Jack ached and lashed out with the hurt of it. Or was it like Christopher and his oldest son, so different in nature they could never understand one another no matter how much they loved each other, leaving the younger bereft and confused when those questions could never now be answered.

Or was it something else entirely. A pain wrought upon this family and wounds etched so deep as to never heal properly, leaving a scar across its back.

"We only need to stay a night, and then I'll find other lodgings" said Lucien at last, his fatigue reverting to anger in the face of his father's perceived rejection.

"You'll do no such thing" said Thomas. His voice was like stone; cold, harsh and unforgiving, and Jean had never heard him speak like that to anyone. His shoulders held a barely-restrained tension that made him look ten years younger and so much crueller than she thought possible. She was frightened, as was the child, whose arms clutched just a fraction tighter. Everything was so tense, and balanced on a knife's edge. Jean wanted to go back to folding her sheets and go to bed and forget all about this stranger and his charge and the life-altering moment she was bearing witness to, but like a car wreck she couldn't look away, and something told her she would soon be in the midst of whatever was happening here. And so she stayed still as a monument, guarding sentinel over the scene.

"This is your home, Lucien. This is your home and you will stay tonight and every night that you need, for as long as you need. You will stay forever if you have to. But this is your home"

All at once the tension left the room as though a valve had been released. Lucien's shoulders sagged and the child looked up at Jean again. Thomas' tension now made sense to Jean, and the depth that his still waters ran endeared her all the more to the old man, for the devotion he was showing his prodigal son. For his part, Lucien seemed taken aback by the display, but he chose not to react strongly in response, offering his free hand to his father in thanks which Thomas took firmly. Before anybody could comprehend what was happening Thomas stepped forward and wrapped his other arm around Lucien's free shoulder in an awkward half-embrace. Neither man seemed to know what to do, but Jean could see the struggle within Thomas not to break and her heart cried for him. No matter what had passed between them before, this moment seemed to transcend the pain of it and offered both men a chance at mending bridges. Thomas was determined to see it through and to ignore his natural reticence for the sake of his son, and Lucien likewise didn't pull away from his father's attempt to hold him close.

"It's good to see you, son" he whispered against Lucien's shoulder, voice breaking.

"You too"

When they did step away from each other the air felt cooler and easier to breathe. For the first time, Thomas seemed to register the little girl in Lucien's arms and his gaze flicked between her and Lucien in askance. He seemed to know something he couldn't put voice to, and so Lucien took pity.

"Dad. I would like you to meet Li. My daughter"

The air left Jean's lungs as though she had been sucker punched, and Thomas' eyes – recovered from the shock of Lucien's arrival – at once filled with tears again. Hearing her name, Li poked her head out to look at Thomas, and they stared at each other for a very long moment.

"Your daughter" whispered Thomas, wonder and awe written all over his face. Jean knew, then, that Thomas had no idea he was a grandfather, and the revelation of it brought a lump to her throat. What could have possibly happened to have put them at such odds that this child – this quiet, precious little thing in her father's arms – was a stranger to her own family. And how miraculous was it that they had made their way here, now, to stand in the hallway of Lucien's childhood home – the house he had left when he was not much older than little Li – and bring this family back together now. Jean placed her shaking fingertips against her lips, holding in her tears, trying not to break the spell that had descended upon them all.

"Welcome home, Li" said Thomas. "It's a pleasure to meet you"

At Lucien's subtle coaxing Li opened her mouth, and in broken English replied, "Hello Grandfather"

Thomas' watery laugh was a balm to their fractured and highly-strung mood. He looked up at Lucien again, beseeching. "You have come such a long way to be here" he said, and though the tone was the same as with little Li he held his son's gaze like his life depended on it, and once more Jean's throat felt thick with emotion. To be witness to this moment made her feel blessed beyond measure, and she couldn't bring herself to look away, and so the four of them stood like that for many long heartbeats as the storm battered on outside and their newly discovered normal started to shift around them. The walls of the house expanded to accommodate the new occupants and Jean forgot about folding sheets and worrying about her position and even her melancholy was far from her mind as, before her eyes, a broken little family took the first steps towards healing.


	2. Chapter 2

_**A/N:**_ _Thank you so much for all my wonderful feedback to the first chapter!_

The unending moment of stillness was broken by Thomas, whose gaze never wavered from his son's face, but whose tone brokered no room for argument when he spoke. It was late, and they were all tired, and in Lucien's arms little Li's eyes were drooping now that she sensed no threat from these strange people. The sudden exhilaration and turmoil of Lucien's arrival gave way to a bone-deep weariness amongst them all, if for no other reason than it was decided he would stay. All other questions – all remaining considerations they had for the days moving forward – could wait so long as Lucien and Li found a pillow to rest their heads on for the night and Jean saw them to their room safely. Whatever else father and son might say to each other in such a monumental moment, it seemed Thomas Blake was not interested in indulging in it any longer.

"Missus Beazley, would you mind setting up the blue room please" he said, eyes remaining on Lucien as he addressed Jean, and though it wasn't necessarily rude, it was far sterner than she had seen from him in a long time. They were not friends, exactly; theirs was a clearly defined line between employer and employee, which they both respected with great dignity. Jean was here in a very specific capacity – to keep the house running smoothly in the absence of a wife – but despite that, Thomas always granted her a level of respect that spoke of their familiarity with one another. He had welcomed her and her teenaged sons into his home for the duration of her employ, and never once demanded more of her than was fair. They were a team of sorts; not equals, but also not enemies. To hear that cast aside told all she needed to know about the good doctor's emotional state.

It was as though Thomas' words broke Lucien from a trance; he turned around and watched as Jean made her way forward to stand next to them all, the two of them almost dancing around each other in the hallway out of trepidation and embarrassment. He had been so focussed on his father – so caught up in the moment of reconciliation and introductions – that he completely forgot about the woman standing behind him witnessing the whole thing. Their moment on the porch seemed a lifetime ago, though in reality it had only been a couple of minutes, and under the hallway lights he could finally make out her features in earnest. She was beautiful, even with her furrowed brow and the wide, discerning gaze, and she was much younger than he imagined any housekeeper to be. Her carefully pinned hair told him she took pride in herself, even as her hand-stitched dress betrayed her more modest background. Lucien was honestly stunned by the presence of her, in his father's employ. Slim, pretty, and just serious enough that he didn't dare to cross her, he was all at once confused and intrigued by this enigma of a person who lived in his childhood home. He was far too strung out to notice any attraction to her, but he was nonetheless drawn in by her physicality and piercing features, which seemed to ask many questions of him that he couldn't yet answer.

"Of course, Doctor Blake" replied Jean. Her eyes were fixated on Lucien, and then with great efficiency her demeanour suddenly changed, set to carry out her task; she took stock of Li and the way the child hung off Lucien's shoulder with eyes so heavy they just about fell out of her head. Jean was a mother first and foremost, and that little girl needed to take off her shoes, wash her face, and go directly to bed. But she wouldn't leave Lucien's side. Even as exhausted as Li was, her little hand still clutched at the collar of his shirt with such vigour Jean knew she wouldn't let go for the world, and Thomas must have noticed the same thing. The blue room was right next to Jean's room upstairs, and had a double sized bed that would fit the two ragged guests for the night so that Li wouldn't have to leave her father's side or wake up in a strange house without him. It would more than suffice for the night, and in the morning they could all regroup and decide what they would do moving forward, but it was late, and they all needed sleep, and just for tonight the blue room would be big enough for the two of them together.

Thomas nodded once and turned back to his room. "Goodnight everyone" he said softly over his shoulder. "I'll see you in the morning"

Lucien almost rolled his eyes. For all his father was taken aback and emotive when he first arrived, at once the old man turned taciturn without a moment's hesitation, delegating the household responsibilities to someone else and ushering himself to bed. Lucien was mad for expecting any different, and disappointed that Thomas was so predictable; he had hoped to at least have a conversation with his father before turning in. But he forced himself to be grateful that he and Li had a dry roof over their head, and maybe in the morning they would be able to sit down together and acknowledge even a fraction of what had transpired between them – or the lack thereof – for so many years.

"Goodnight Doctor" said Jean, quiet and unquestioning, as the bedroom door closed and she was left alone with Lucien and Li and so many questions.

They faced one another, the silence stretching awkwardly around them, until Lucien cleared his throat, shifted Li in his arms again, and held out his hand to shake hers.

"Missus Beazley, is it?" he said, trying to be polite.

She took his hand and squeezed it more than shook it, mindful not to jostle him about when he looked dead on his feet and holding a child. "Jean, please" she said, and then let him go.

"Jean" he repeated. He nodded his head once in acknowledgement. "I'm Doctor Lucien Blake"

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Doctor Blake" she said, features softening just fractionally at his obvious attempt to find his manners again.

"Lucien, please"

She smiled despite herself. They were such a pair, the two of them, dancing around one another and offering pleasantries and niceties and sounding so formal in the dead of night, that it was downright absurd. It was as though none of the previous few minutes had transpired – as though Thomas had never appeared at all – and instead they were just two people meeting each other at the door at a reasonable hour instead of the middle of the night at the start of a summery storm. It was like a business transaction, except it was their shared home – in different ways – and they were both tired and in need of going to bed.

"Lucien" she repeated, and she could make out just a hint of a smirk in the corner of his mouth too, and it pleased her immensely that he found this as amusing – and somewhat ridiculous – as she did. He was the Doctor's son, and she would never dream of overstepping her familiarity with him, but there was something about the way he conducted himself that said perhaps he would prefer it if they could relate first as equals, without further formalities or airs. Jean understood that, or at least accepted it. If they could find an ounce of humour in an otherwise unbearably tense situation she would take it and be grateful.

She gestured her arm forward, ushering him towards the stairs, and remembered her manners just in time not to give him directions.

The blue room was aptly named for its powder blue curtains and matching lamp shade. It had been intended for Christopher and Jack to use it as their room when they all moved off the farm, but then Doug Ashby sent Jack off to Melbourne to try and sort him out, ignoring Jean's pleas and the lad's adolescence, and so for two short years Christopher had slept in the single room across the hall instead. The day he turned eighteen Christopher hiked his rucksack over his shoulder, kissed her cheek, shook Doctor Blake's hand in thanks for his kindness, and boarded a bus that would take him to Duntroon. So all these years the blue room remained empty, the double bed and an antique chest of draws the only furniture inside.

Jean had already made up the bed with a bedspread featuring little embroidered morning glory to complete the decor, and it was intended that they start looking for potential boarders to occupy it in the year to come. It was Jean who suggested such an arrangement, and though the additional meagre income stream would prove useful, in truth she was inspired because this house seemed far too big for two people. Christopher had been gone a few months now and the space around her felt oppressive. She had the entire top floor to herself, her room sequestered up the back and overlooking the back garden, and sometimes the creak of the floorboards under her feet felt eerie in the surrounding silence and emptiness. There were two other bedrooms besides her own and it felt wasteful to leave them empty and stale when there were people who surely needed a place to live. Having lodgers at the house would create more work for her, yes, but it would also bring company; new people to interact with and care for in her day. After so long cramped in their tiny two-bedroom farmhouse, her and the boys, it felt strange not to have people underfoot all day.

She never could have dreamed that the occupants of this room would one day be a prodigal son and granddaughter.

She watched as Lucien rounded the bed and pulled back the cover, sending the pillows flying out of the way to make room for Li. He laid her carefully down, running a hand over her hair to settle her as she whined in her half-daze, and offered a soothing _shhh_ to get her to drift fully to sleep. He took off her shoes and placed them on the floor beside the bed, leaving on her socks, and then took the covers and pulled them back over her, dress and all, to worry about cleanliness and presentation tomorrow.

The whole display looked practiced and easy for the two of them. Jean considered where they had come from – Singapore, surely, or just nearby, and over the oceans to Melbourne and then just a little further still to Ballarat. Months of travelling together, and years before that in a hell she could only imagine, in a warzone and a country torn asunder. Father and daughter were a united team, bound together by blood and by their singular reliance on each other. Watching Lucien tuck the covers around Li's chin to ward off the pervasive Ballarat chill – still present in the night air even as they approached summer – caused a simmer of grief to well up within her. Christopher used to dote on the boys like that when they were very small; it felt so greatly unfair that he would never again, either for his children or grandchildren. Maybe she was remembering him wrong; maybe he had been less tactile than she thought in their everyday life. But in Jean's mind he had been a wonderful husband and a loving father, and the loss of him still ached to her bones. Watching Lucien and Li now brought that same ache to the surface, and she longed to have her two boys home with her again so that she could do the same for them.

But the sight also brought a soft smile to her face to watch. Lucien was a soldier, that much was obvious, and he was serious and stern and a mystery. The man confused her; by himself he would seem downright menacing, and she wouldn't be left alone with him. But with Li in his arms he turned to jelly, his touch so soft and gentle, his care for her so tender the girl drifted straight to sleep at his insistence. In a tone just barely loud enough to hear he was whispering, _I'm not going anywhere, sleep my girl, you sleep and I'll be right here_ , and Jean let slip a faint smile at the sight.

He didn't flinch when he looked up and saw Jean was still watching them, but he did look a little bit sheepish. She had to wonder what for, but didn't ask.

"Perhaps when she's a little more settled we can set up the small room for her" said Jean, referring to Christopher's old room. It had a single bed and an old rocking chair, and she knew without asking that Lucien had slept in there himself as a small boy. It was the kind of room a mother would furnish for her child, where once a toy box would have stood in the corner and alphabet books on the shelf. Those things were all boxed away now, maybe even thrown out. There was a room downstairs that Thomas never opened that was once his wife's studio, and Jean wondered at the secrets it might hold, but had never dared venture inside without his permission. The single room was stark and bare since Christopher left, with plain white bedding and no decorations, and it was begging for the touch of a child to grace it again with toys and books and the mess that only children could muster all over the floor.

"Perhaps" answered Lucien to her suggestion, but didn't elaborate.

She wasn't sure if Lucien and his daughter would stay here long. If the encounter with Blake Senior downstairs was any indication they wouldn't stand each other's company for more than a few terse minutes, and nobody would want to subject their child to such a hostile environment. Jean didn't know their story, but just looking at the little girl's face told her it had been a difficult one to date, and Lucien showing up in Ballarat to find sanctuary surely did not include having it out with his father.

"I'll get you fresh towels for the morning" said Jean.

"Please don't trouble -"

But she was out the door and at the upstairs linen closet before Lucien's protest could be effective, and she missed the way his eyes rolled and his shoulders sagged. He looked heavenward for a moment and rubbed his eyes with the heel of his hands, and then slapped his hands back down at his sides. He looked at his bag that was unceremoniously on the floor by the doorway, dropped from his shoulder the second he entered the room, and the thought of finding alternate clothes and changing before bed seemed daunting and unattainable.

A moment later Jean came back into the room with two fresh bath towels and two face washers folded neatly in her hands, and she passed them to Lucien with a restrained smile.

"Thank you Jean, you really didn't have to"

"Of course" she said. But she did have to, because that was her job, and because it only made sense she do it for him since she knew where everything was kept. And because Doctor Blake had asked her to see that his son and granddaughter were taken up to bed in a reasonable fashion, which in her estimation included fresh towels.

She bit her tongue so as not to give him directions to the bathroom downstairs. She had to keep reminding herself that Lucien Blake had far greater claim to this house than she ever would, and to disrespect the son would be to disrespect the father who had so graciously employed her when she had nowhere else to go. The floor beneath her feet felt impossibly ordinary considering how swiftly the world had tilted on its axis.

"Do you need anything else? Can I bring you a glass of water for by the bed?"

Lucien's eyes turned hard, a flicker of resentment ghosting across his features, and her back stiffened a little bit in response even as she held her ground.

"I appreciate the offer, Jean, but you really don't have to tend to us, despite what my father may expect"

All at once her hackles rose up, her brow furrowed and her spine snapped ramrod straight at his implication, and she clenched her fists behind her back to stop him from seeing the extent of her ire.

"I am more than happy to" she said, her tone formal and clipped. "Not only because your father asked, but because it is my job"

Lucien looked momentarily startled, but he took in the proud jut of her chin and the ice in her gaze and immediately realised he had overstepped in the most grievous of ways, laying waste to the value of her position and the efficiency of her help even though, in reality, he was trying to ease her burdens. Having known her for a sum total of a few minutes, already Lucien could see that Jean Beazley was a proud woman and an honest worker, and that she didn't suffer fools. He was glad for that; it made him inexplicably pleased to know that the help his father had hired may be obedient, but she was not reticent. It also hadn't occurred to him that she was only trying to be kind, and helpful, and that she would have behaved this way for any other guests because it was her way of showing her care and consideration. Lucien felt sufficiently chastised, and he respected her all the more in that brief moment, and took note not to dismiss her again.

"Of course" he said, bowing his head a little in supplication. "I only meant, I am fine to fetch myself some water if we need. I'm sure I'll remember the way"

Jean looked sceptical and still a bit put-out, but she accepted him at face value. It was not her place to force her service on him; if Lucien didn't want her help or if he saw it as some misplaced extension of his father's paternalism, Jean was not going to spend too much of her time pondering on it. And she certainly wouldn't bend over backwards to accommodate any foul moods or ingratitude from a man she only just met. They were all no doubt very tired and quite grumpy; the whole house could do with a decent night's sleep before anything untoward was said by anyone. With that in mind, Jean nodded at Lucien and took a deep breath before speaking, her head quirking to one side to soften her tone a little.

"Well, in that case, I wish you both a goodnight, Lucien"

He seemed relieved that she continued the use of his first name, which almost made her smile. He was a doctor, and was born of this fine house to the higher class of Ballarat; he had travelled the world and fought in a war, and yet the man before her seemed to detest any hint of pomp and circumstance, even to the point of causing her personal offence. She couldn't yet figure out what made him work, or where his values aligned, and that was troubling to her because Jean had always been an astute woman; had always known the ins and outs of how people thought and felt. She prided herself on being a good listener and a respected member of her congregation and community. Nobody in Ballarat was much of a mystery to her. But he was; Lucien Blake was a total enigma. She was both baffled and deeply intrigued.

"I'm just in the room next door" she added, gesturing just over her right shoulder, the unspoken offer of any additional help falling silent between them.

"Thank you" he said, and this time she could tell he truly meant it. "Goodnight, Jean"

"Goodnight" she echoed, and then turned on her heel and walked out of the room, feeling his eyes on her back the whole way.


	3. Chapter 3

_**A/N:**_ _Sincerest thanks for all your kind reviews so far!_

~0~

It was late the next afternoon when Jean finally felt comfortable enough to be left alone with Lucien Blake. The day was spent in near silence; Lucien and Li were late to rise, and by the time they did Jean and Doctor Blake were seeing to several patients in the practice at the front of the house, he in his rooms and she at reception. She didn't even have a chance to offer Lucien tea and cold meats for lunch before he had found the items for himself, made up a plate, and disappeared back upstairs to spend time with Li in their room.

She wondered at his behaviour, and tried not to take it personally. They had been through such a harrowing time, the details of which Jean's mind couldn't even conjure up let alone face, and if the two of them sought out privacy and safety within the four walls of the blue room she would not begrudge them that; their reliance on one another was steadfast and it would be some time, she imagined, before either of them would want to be out of the other's sight. But Jean also wanted to tend to them, and make sure they were okay, and Lucien was making it clear he wouldn't engage in her company or her hospitality. That still smarted, no matter which angle Jean tried to look at it. And to make things worse, Thomas was in a bad mood all day; barely acknowledging his son was in the house, and certainly not venturing upstairs himself to seek him out. It made Jean furious; how was she to know how to behave when neither of these men would give her a hint? How could she plant her feet firmly when the two of them were determined to keep the ground beneath them as quicksand, ever-changing and threatening to suck them all under at a moment's notice?

But by late afternoon Lucien was obviously in a mental state to face the world, because just as the last patient of the day was being seen out, Jean head footfalls on the stairs – two sets, one heavy and ominous, and the other light as a fairy.

Thomas stayed sequestered in the practice writing his notes, determined to ignore the rest of the house, and Jean was just about done with his foul mood. If he wouldn't take charge and set the tone, Jean was determined that she would do so for herself and to that end she squared her shoulders, took a deep breath, and then waltzed into the kitchen to find their houseguests.

Li was sitting at the table, watching her father fill the kettle at the sink with careful eyes. She must surely have felt the tension in the room – children were astute in that way and Jean felt sorry for the girl. She seemed sweet, and resilient, and though she was shy Li looked up at Jean when she entered and didn't look away. Lucien must have heard her approach, but he gave no indication of it, and so Jean stepped lightly over the kitchen threshold. She smiled at Li as she went, and the child didn't flinch, and that was good enough for Jean.

"I'll get that" she said softly, moving closer to the stove. Lucien turned on the spot and watched her carefully, through dark eyes, but didn't move. With her best hostess face on and steel in her spine, Jean kept looking at him with earnestness until finally, reluctantly, Lucien placed the kettle on the stovetop and moved away with a nod, obviously sensing that Jean would not back down.

"Thank you, Jean" he said. He wasn't happy about being waited on, but he learned his lesson last night not to question her hospitality where possible.

"Tea?" she asked, with her voice too bright. She lit the burner under the kettle.

"That would be lovely, thank you"

"And you, Madam?" she said, painting on her cheeriest and most approachable smile and turning to Li with just a hint of mischief. Her entire countenance was trying to bring levity and lightness to the room. "Would you like a hot cocoa?"

Li looked to her father in askance, not sure what she was and was not allowed to do in this house yet. Lucien was watching Jean with a strange expression on his face – one part angry the other highly amused. He must find her ridiculous, she thought, trying to act sunny and cheerful so falsely. But there was no reason the mood of the grown-ups had to affect young Li any more than it already had, and as far as Jean was aware, in a child's world hot cocoa could cure just about any ailment. When Lucien looked down to find Li watching him, asking for guidance, he just nodded his head towards Jean as if to say _well, answer as you like_ , and for the first time since meeting her Jean saw the whisper of a smile on her face, as the girl looked back at her and said softly, accented, "Yes please, Mrs Beazley".

Jean smiled at her – tender and genuine. "Wonderful". She busied herself getting the milk and the cocoa and the sugar from various cupboards. "I thought you might. My sons always loved a warm cup of cocoa"

"Do they live here too?" asked Li, confident in herself now that she had her father's permission to speak up.

"No" said Jean. She couldn't hide the sadness in her voice, and hoped they wouldn't notice. "No, they don't live here anymore. But when they did they loved cocoa"

"May I watch, please?" asked Li. Jean was quite surprised, and whirled around to look at the girl; she was sitting up straight – practiced, Jean figured, like a debutante at elocution school – and her eyes were wide and curious. They were Lucien's eyes, she realised; the colouring and shape of her mother, for sure, but the furrow of her brow and the set of her lashes and the way she seemed to stare right into Jean's darkest secrets was a trait all her father. It was another reason Jean found herself so uneasy; between the two of them, Lucien and Li seemed to unravel every wall Jean had erected around herself, with little deference to _the proper way_ or _how things are done_. They had lived through too much to give deference to small town sensibilities, which must seem to them paltry and useless. Jean had lived her whole life by those sensibilities; had married young while pregnant because of them, had been a faithful churchgoer because of them, had worn the shame of her son's behaviour like a scarlet letter because that's what people did, and was accepted back into the fold of society for doing so. The only life Jean knew was carved out by the generations of people who had gone before her who had not broken those unspoken tenants, and even if she wished to see the world when she was youthful, in her heart she accepted it wasn't a reality for women like her. Ballarat was a small world, affected by the preceding years but so far away from all the happenings that it seemed more fantasy than nightmare. Some days that surety and safety was a Godsend, and others it was a rod for her back, but nonetheless, that's how it was in Ballarat and she accepted it.

Lucien and Li saw right through all that, and she had to wonder if that was the exact reason Thomas Blake sequestered himself in his practice, avoid them. Avoiding the uncomfortable questions that would soon follow. Avoiding the confrontation between father and son that would hold no deference for unspoken social conduct, only anger for years of built-up pain.

But in that moment Li asked to join Jean in her happy chore, and Jean smiled at her. It was as though the floodgates had opened; now that she was safe and amongst friends little Li was eager to join in whatever fun she could get her hands on, and Jean was positively delighted that she would even ask, let alone be serious about the offer. But her face looked so earnest, and her body jiggled on the seat as she swung her legs, and Jean knew that something as mundane as making hot drinks must surely be magical for a child who had lived her formative years in a battlefield and the interim years since in veritable hell. Her heart wept for her, but her face softened, and she held out her hand for Li to join her near the stove.

"I would love for you to come and watch" said Jean, and she managed to hold back a laugh as Li scrambled from her chair so fast the legs scratched upon the floor.

~0~

Her hot cocoa finished and her natural effervesces shining through, Li asked if she might read a book on the couch just in the next room. Lucien dismissed her quietly, reminding her that one of her own was in his rucksack upstairs should she want that one. But Li was more interested in perusing the titles on the small shelf in the lounge – a random selection that Jean and Thomas hadn't touched in ages – and in a moment she brought back a tattered red hardback to show to her father.

"This one has my name in it" she said, handing it over, and Lucien turned it around in his hand with a slight flourish to give it the attention it was due.

"Little Women" he recited.

"See? It has Li in the title" said Li, pointing to the cover.

Lucien smiled at her gently. "Yes it does, well done. Perhaps you can ask Mrs Beazley if this one is okay for you to read"

Li took her father's instruction and looked up at Jean in askance, who smiled at her from her place on the opposite side of the table and nodded.

"You may read any book you wish from that shelf. Some of them are a little too old for you yet, but give that one a go. I'm sure we can help you if you get stuck on any words"

Li plucked the book from her father's hands so swiftly he muttered _don't snatch_ out of habit, and she ran back into the living room to claim a couch, calling _thank you Mrs Beazley_ over her shoulder as she went, though it was more of an afterthought than genuine gratitude. Jean swallowed back a smile, and when she looked to Lucien she could tell he was doing the same, and so she let him see her delight after all because he should be proud of his daughter. Jean was proud of the girl and it had been less than a day. They gave each other matching looks, the kind only knowing parents could share.

"Was that book one of yours?" he asked, eyes still shining. She got the distinct impression he was teasing her a little bit, and it almost threw her off balance.

"I think a patient left it behind once, but I'm not sure"

Lucien nodded, still smiling, and looked over his shoulder to watch Li where she sat in an armchair by the window. They could hear her faintly reciting the words on the page to herself, reading phonetically the way Jean remembered her boys doing with their school readers. Those days seemed like yesterday, and once more a wave of melancholy washed over Jean as she thought about her sons.

"I'm afraid her schooling is not up to scratch" said Lucien, turning back around. Jean's heart broke for the way he sounded so ashamed of himself, though she couldn't fathom why he should. That Li could fumble her way through any words at all, let alone a children's novel, was testament to the time and dedication he had obviously put into her schooling since the war. Lucien Blake seemed at every turn to want to make excuses for himself and his child, failing to see that they were here, safe at home _because_ of his actions, not in spite of them. She didn't know him at all, but she could see well enough that he had clawed his way back to Ballarat with Li in his arms through sheer force of will, and she respected that immensely.

"Though she is a voracious reader" he added. He sounded proud again, and Jean intended to keep him that way.

"She is so very bright, I'm sure she will catch up with school in no time"

It felt like an empty platitude, and in many ways it was, but Jean didn't want this man to take on any further burden than was necessary. Li was eight – so Jean found out in the course of making cocoa with her – and quick as a whip. Like a sponge she soaked up everything around her, and Jean could see eagerness in the girl to reach for more, to challenge herself, to seek it out, evidenced in the way she sat proud in her chair within eye line of her father but determined not to call for help with her difficult book.

"You have children?" asked Lucien. The question stunned Jean out of her reverie, and she took a moment to answer him.

"I have two sons" she said.

Lucien cocked his head a little to the side, summing up this woman and trying to gather clues. "Where are they now?" he asked, and through he tried not to sound like he was interrogating her, there was definitely a level of curiosity that was hard to mask. She didn't look old enough for her sons to be fully grown; she was younger than him, and he certainly felt uneasy about the idea that he could have adult children. She was pragmatic and kind, but damaged; he could sense the sadness in her gaze and the wariness in the way she moved around him. Only Li, with her million questions by the stove, helping to pour the milk, brought out any of the softness underneath and that only made Lucien more curious.

"My oldest has just joined the Army" said Jean to the tabletop.

Lucien winced, and Jean noticed it from the corner of her eye, but she was too worried for Christopher with her own stories and experience to add to that burden with Lucien's, so she didn't ask him to elaborate.

"The day he turned eighteen his mind was made up and off he went" she continued. "That was four months ago now. He can't tell me what he's doing, of course, but he sounds happy there"

Once more it sounded like a false platitude. The war had gashed a scar across the back of the nation so deep that everyone was still healing, and still wounded. Sons, brothers and fathers who didn't come home, and the war memorials to honour them, lined the streets of every town and city in the country like ghosts on a foggy road. When she thought of her husband, marching off to war to prove a stubborn, prideful point, and then she watched her son leave on the same bus with that same set of his chin, it just about brought her to her knees. How could he, she used to think; how could he do this to me again, knowing what it looked like last time. But Christopher Junior didn't know what it looked like, not really. He was a small boy – younger than Li even – when the war started, and by the time they received news of his father's death he was a tall and gangly thing, on the cusp of manhood, his voice breaking and his muscles catching up to summer growth spurts. He was the master of their house for many years, and to him joining the Army was something men did out of honour, to be revered. When he received word that he was accepted to Duntroon, it was the final push he needed, and as far as Jean knew he hadn't looked back for even a moment, and that broke her heart.

"It won't be easy for him" said Lucien, his mind lost in memory, his eyes unfocussed just near where her nail scratched the top of the table.

"No" said Jean softly. She thought about the wireless reports coming out of south-east Asia; the idea that her son would get embroiled in any kind of conflict near the same soil that claimed his father made her feel physically ill.

Neither of them had anything more to say about Christopher's journey, so Jean plastered a fake smile on her face and continued on. "My younger son… he's… challenging"

"Where is he now?" asked Lucien, and though he tried not to sound judgemental he couldn't help but think the boy was just that; a boy. Younger than eighteen and not at home, Lucien feared there was something more afoot than he was being told. His first mind was to keeping his daughter safe and if he had to put his housekeeper's nose out of joint to do it, he didn't care one jot.

"He got into a bit of trouble with the police a couple of years ago" said Jean, her eyes once more downcast. "He was sent to Melbourne to straighten him out"

And because he didn't know this woman very well, and because he wanted to know exactly what kind of people his Li may be exposed to while they stayed in his father's house, Lucien pushed the point, staring at Jean across the table the way a spider might stalk a fly.

"Did it work?"

It was rude - he knew it was rude – and yet he asked it anyway and didn't falter under Jean's affronted expression, her eyes wild. But in a second she mellowed and looked away, and they both seemed to understand in that moment that they each carried a certain burden where it came to their children, and they acknowledged it and accepted it between them.

"Time will tell" she said, sounding so sad and defeated and unable to lie to him. "I hear from him occasionally, but his letters don't tell me much. He struggled so much with my husband's death. Christopher put on a brave face and got on with it, but Jack…"

She cute herself short and looked at Lucien with a sheepish expression, apologising wordlessly for letting herself ramble on about Jack when he didn't even know the boy.

"Does he come back to Ballarat?" asked Lucien, his voice softer than before, and kinder.

"I don't think he'd come back if you paid him. And certainly not to this house"

Jean had taken this job barely a month before Jack was sent away, though the timing was not at all planned. It was fortuitous only when considering how he and the elder Blake handled one another; Jack and Doctor Blake had butted heads almost daily, and Jean genuinely worried for her job in the beginning. When he was sent off by Ashby, there had been no love lost from the older man, and barely any sympathy for Jean herself. For all his accommodations and fairness, Doctor Blake was not the kind of man to take on charity or to accept such an intrusion in his own home, and in hindsight his actions through that difficult time didn't paint him in a particularly appealing light. Still, Jean was indebted to him for his taking a chance on her, and she wouldn't ever say anything to discount that, to the man's son or anyone else.

And anyway, Lucien seemed to understand exactly what she meant and why, without her needed to say anything further about the tensions that went unacknowledged within their walls.

"What will he do in Melbourne?" he asked.

Jean sighed, and shrugged a little – a tired little moment from a mother who had been at her wits end for near on four years now. "He's a strong boy" she said, a slight question in her tone. "And despite his proclivity for trouble he is very intelligent. I'm sure he's found work as a labourer or a barman. Something where they don't ask too many questions"

Lucien watched as a glimmer of hurt danced across her face; she looked so worn under. He knew what that felt like; when he tracked down his daughter and pulled her out of the orphanage that had taken her, every fear and trepidation about his being a poor parent came true. Every moment of self-doubt that he wasn't up to the task paled in comparison to the realisation that he had let Li down in every possible way, for years on end, so that every moment since had been like a penance, trying desperately to prove to her how much he loved her. It was a bitter pill to swallow, feeling that level of responsibility and hopelessness, and Lucien had the cover of Singapore's demise to hide his shame. He empathised with Jean in that moment. How terrible it must feel, to have no excuses for her son falling by the wayside; to live with the knowledge that her boy – still a child himself – was away from her and fending for himself because he was such a lost soul he couldn't return home.

Any feelings of worry or resentment he harboured for her family situation faded away. He thought about the kindness she had showed to them since they arrived and the surety of her step as she kept this house and his father in top shape. He thought about the patience she had with Li while making their drinks, and the softness he could see under her carefully erected armour. He thought about why her walls were there in the first place, and the fact she was still standing.

He admired her a great deal in that moment, and knew that he had underestimated her unfairly.

"You must miss them both terribly" he said gently.

"Every day" she whispered, her voice thick with restrained emotion as she eventually, with everything she could muster, pulled herself together again.

Some nights the grief for her sons kept her awake and tore her apart, silent wracking sobs shaking her body until she was forced out of bed or fell asleep from the exhaustion. She had done her very best with what she had, but the truth was she could barely manage it all without Christopher by her side, and her grief at losing him was consuming. She kept her sons fed and clothed, gave them the meagre few minutes she could spare to run sums or practice their writing skills, or try to give them an ounce of her affection. But she couldn't give them what they truly needed to get through their own grief – a mother's undivided attention day to day, or a safe place to land with their hurt and worries. She couldn't guarantee they would be safe, not when their entire adolescence had been plagued by the war and their farm's near financial ruin, and even once they were safe their mother was forced off the property and into the home of a man who was fair but far too pragmatic to indulge teenage sons.

Jean did her very best, and loved her boys with all her heart, but she was still furiously angry with Christopher for having the audacity to die and leave her carrying double the load with only half the strength. Farther Morton consoled and counselled her endlessly, and tried to make her see that it was not her actions alone – that Jack had always been rambunctious and troublesome and Christopher Junior always an aloof and quiet boy prone to following his own ideas - but her guilt ran deep. The truth was neither of them was with her and they were still far too young to be away from her, and accepting the reality of that was a deeply difficult thing to contend with each day.

They sat for a while then, two strangers who felt connected to one another in the most unexpected of ways, and they basked in the unique peace that came not from waylaid guilt, but from it being shared. Whatever path had brought them thus far, and whatever else happened in the future, they were kindred spirits in that moment, and for a brief and fleeting few minutes they could breathe a little easier.


	4. Chapter 4

_**A/N:**_ _Thank you to all my readers, I am so thankful for you! I have gone back and fixed some minor details relating to timings, just to keep everything in line. Also, sorry for the slow updates, life is super busy at the moment, and I'm also going to be travelling, so the next few chapters may be a little more spaced out, but hang in there, it is coming._

~0~

Dinner was excruciating.

More than that, it was downright awful. It was one thing to have Thomas ignoring his houseguests during the day from the confines of his medical practice, hiding behind procedure and paperwork like the coward he proved to be. But it was quite another to sit around the table, all four of them, and have silence descend on them like a heavy blanket which put everyone on edge, every scrape of a knife against the plate making Jean's ears grate with unease.

Lucien was tense, his muscles bound tight and his jaw clenched, and he shovelled his food in like a soldier in a mess hall, which only earned him the occasional huff and disapproving glare from Thomas. He studiously ignored his father, and carried on eating how he pleased most likely just to annoy him. It was so reminiscent of Jack's behaviour that Jean wondered if perhaps her son's nature cut just a little too close to the bone for the good doctor, proving too much to handle and thus setting those two off on the wrong foot from the start. It was almost amusing to think of – that her boy and Lucien were cut from the same cloth – though of course there was nothing amusing about this meal otherwise.

And dear little Li, who all afternoon had come out of her shell with vigour and aplomb while she read her book, was taciturn and hesitant once again over dinner, as though a stiff breeze would knock her down. She took her cues entirely from her father, and looked close to bursting into tears as she watched him with a hypervigilance that Jean recognised immediately as unhealthy. She was watching him the way children at school would watch their fathers if they knew they were in for a belting; the way the boys used to watch her over the dinner table when they didn't know what had happened to Christopher and Jean was holding on by a thread. Li was flinching at every cough, eating her food so quickly Jean worried she would get a stomach ache, and Lucien was too deep in his own mind to properly console her.

They were bound together tightly, father and daughter, and one day on safe ground was not enough to reassure the child that she didn't need to keep worrying for the other shoe to drop. Li's eyes kept darting between her father and grandfather, sensing almost immediately that they were the cause of all this upset. Despite sending little smiles to her across the table, Jean could barely get a twitch of the lips in return. They had travelled across the world after years in torture, to come and find a safe place, and Jean wanted so much for this house to be that her for. But it seemed Li's fears were founded; Thomas Blake proved to be the other shoe dropping, and Jean was rather cross with him for it; he was a reserved man but not unkind, and he could surely see his granddaughter's distress just as clearly. Jean wanted to smack him silly, but she didn't know this family's history, and had never traced its scars, and so she remained quiet and tense in her seat, doing her best not to get dragged under.

Thomas was no help all night. When it became painfully obvious that he couldn't ignore them any longer – when Jean was literally serving the dinner on the table, and about to put a tea-towel over his to keep it warm – Thomas walked in without a word and took his customary place at the head of the table. They were in the kitchen, as it was the less formal room for dinner, and Lucien had made it abundantly clear that he would have no fuss or bother over his staying. The use of the dining room would have only raised his ire, Jean figured, and so she served dinner at the kitchen table instead and noticed Lucien's quiet gratitude for it.

Thomas hadn't commented. Hadn't insisted they serve on the finer china or with a candle in the centre. He kept his eyes downcast when he entered the room, made a customary mention of dinner looking _fine thank you Jean_ , and then tucked in without another word to anyone.

"How was your book, Li?" Jean had asked sweetly. All she got in return was a soft and small "it's good" in return, and so they had all followed Thomas' lead and eaten in silence, and remained so until the meal was over.

And then there was total silence again, and it was agonising. Thomas wiped his mouth with his handkerchief from his waistcoat pocket, sniffling and shuffling in his seat and just generally taking up space at the table while Jean cleared the plates and Lucien took more interest in wiping Li's hands clean with a napkin than was strictly necessary.

"That was lovely, Jean" said Thomas. It was his usual praise to her whenever she served a satisfactory dinner. Normally it gave her spirit a small boost to hear it, but tonight she was far too frustrated to notice.

"I'm glad" she replied tightly, facing the sink and stacking the dishes ready to be washed.

"I'm going to turn in early I think" said Thomas. He stood from the table with an affected grunt. "Jean, if you wouldn't mind coming to collect some accounts that need to be taken to the bank tomorrow?"

She left the dishes in the sink and furrowed her brow, wiping her hands on her apron as she stepped forward.

"Of course, Doctor" she said, and made to follow him out of the kitchen. She took a quick look at their guests, but Lucien's eyes were dark and downcast, his jaw tight, and Li was likewise cowering in her seat, making herself small and inconsequential to the adults in the room. Thomas cast a look at them both, faltered just a little – if Jean wasn't watching him like a hawk she never would have seen it, but his gaze seemed to stutter when it reached his son – and then he made his way towards the door, expecting Jean to follow obediently.

"Goodnight everyone" he said, not looking back.

And from the corner of the table, the only response in the stressed and stormy mood was a tiny and sweet, "Goodnight Grandfather", which seemed more than anything else to break Jean's heart to pieces.

~0~

Thomas was positively beside himself when they reached the study. He was tugging at his waistcoat – a habit he only did when he was extremely nervous or overcome with emotion – and shuffling papers around his usually-meticulous desk. The patient files were all stacked neatly on the corner, ready for Jean to collect and file first thing in the morning before first calls were made, but the accounts were a veritable rubbish heap. Jean ordinarily took the cheques into town, but Thomas did the bulk of the daily accounts, entered into his ledger with the dignity they deserved. He would organise them in a file and stack the receipts away, then sort deposit slips for the cheques and leave them for Jean to walk them to the bank when she did her morning shop and post office run. It was like a well-oiled machine, and one that Thomas was more than happy to adhere to – he took pride in keeping his own books and seeing his estate well set-up. Jean had to wonder what it was all for, and who he was building his tiny empire to protect, and it dawned on her in that moment that a part of him always hoped his son would come back so that he could pass this house and all its estate on to him. Thomas had never said as much to her – barely mentioned his family at all, though Jean knew there was a sister or an aunt with money somewhere in town. But all of the economic rigour and responsibility suddenly made sense to her, and it nearly knocked her over. Thomas had always wished for his son's return, and now here he was, with the next generation in front of him as well, and Thomas had no idea what to do about it. Had no idea what to do next.

He was a man who lived by confines and control, and in that way he and Jean were similar in nature. The wilful Genevieve had been the extent of Thomas' rebellion, and he had paid for that pairing in a myriad of ways. It was known that he was estranged from his wealthy family for marrying _that woman_ , and Genevieve's oldest friends were still the rebel-rousers of their generation. The Clasby sisters were dearly beloved family friends, the most staid of the lot, and even their stories still made Jean laugh in surprise and sometimes shock.

Thomas lived by the rules of his town and station, and was a man of strictness and order. Lucien Blake was the antithesis of that in every way, and it must have terrified his father to witness all the wildness of his wife distilled into his only son. Jean's annoyance fell away a little in sympathy. This situation was so far out of his depth; one look at the desk, and Thomas' attempt to avoid the world all evening by sorting the accounts, was all Jean needed to see he'd made a right mess of it all.

"I apologise for this, Jean" he said, his hands on top of a stack of cheques. She knew instantly that he was apologising for so much more than the ruddy accounts. That he was apologising for leaving her alone with their guests all day, and for ignoring them all over dinner, and for being too frightened to face his own son. Thomas wasn't the least bit tired yet, she could see, but he would take himself off to bed before he spent another minute out in the family room, and she rather thought he _should_ apologise for that; it was a rotten thing to do to her and to his son. Not to mention the dear sweet girl just down the hall who was crying out for some normalcy and had suffered more than enough, without these strangers adding to her burdens.

"I will sort it in the morning" she said softly, and when Thomas looked up in thanks they both knew there was an undercurrent to their conversation that went far beyond bookkeeping.

"Yes" he said, nodding, looking down, pacing away from his desk only to step back towards it and lean on it with his knuckles. _Yes_ , things will be better in the morning. _Yes_ , Jean would probably be the one to fix things. _Yes_ , tomorrow was another day and they should make hay while the sun shone. _Yes_ , Thomas needed to do better.

"You will have to talk to him eventually" she said to him, gently but firmly. They didn't speak to each other frankly very often, but there was a level of respect and mutual understanding that sometimes – when the night was just-so and the air thick with unsaid things, or if they were in just the right kind of mood to inspire raw honesty – sometimes she would tell it to him straight, and he would take it on the chin. This wasn't one of those nights. It was uncomfortable and untenable, and frankly Jean expected to be thrown out for the comment. But she could also see Lucien mentally packing his bags with every passing minute and she knew – deep in her soul she knew – that if he walked out that front door again with his daughter in tow, he would never come back to this house, and that wasn't acceptable. There were too many ghosts lurking in its shadows already, to go adding those of the living to it as well, and it was too important to Jean that father and son be okay again. She couldn't seem to mend the rift that had formed between herself and her own children, but by God she could try her hardest to see this one to rights.

So when Thomas turned to her she didn't flinch, or look away, or apologise. Instead her eyes remained kind and her jaw set in pride, and he took one look at her and deflated, like a cake that had the oven door opened on it too soon.

"I know" said Thomas, his voice quiet and close to breaking. "I just-"

He looked down again to the desktop and tapped it with his fingers. Thomas Blake was a proud man; old-fashioned and well-groomed, always formal and polite in all company. Jean had never seen him drink too much or say a word out of turn; he smoked and had a whiskey at the Club usually twice a week, and he checked on his patients with an efficient sort of detachment that worked for everybody, and when he stood in town on ANZAC Day and watched the parade nobody questioned him. He had been a triage doctor in town during the Great War, his son had been in the Second War, and Thomas was a respected member of the higher class of Ballarat. Jean was proud to work for him. But she had never seen him look so lost for words, or so afraid of his own shadow.

"I don't know what to say" he said after a moment.

All at once her heart shattered again, a knot forming in her throat so tightly she couldn't swallow. It was a redundant truth; none of them really knew what to say, but that shouldn't preclude any of them from trying, and it certainly shouldn't mean that it was up to her to carry the bulk of the conversation. But he looked so lost, and it hurt her to see a man so able and so forthright reduced to hiding in his office and speechless.

"You could start with _how was your day_ " she suggested.

Thomas scoffed in amusement, a hollow sound. He didn't scold her, but it was evident he also thought her suggestion bad at best. Jean couldn't see the harm in trying; surely a paltry little enquiry about the weather would be better that total silence, and in any case, he needed to start somewhere and there was no easy place to begin to mend the fabric of a family. This one seemed more broken than most – its only son had moved to the other side of the world and faced a war alone, fathered a foreign child, lost almost everything and then reluctantly returned home when it seemed there was nowhere else for him to go. Whatever had cast him out in the first place, it would be up to Thomas to acknowledge it and fix it, so far as Jean could see. So yes, asking about Lucien's day did seem ridiculous, but it was only one of many ridiculous things about this whole business.

"I hurt him very badly, Jean" said Thomas. His eyes were full of sorrow, and his face twisted in pain. There were regrets that ran deep in his soul. Thomas was not the kind of man – was not born of that generation of men – who was used to facing those regrets with any kind of deference. He was more of a _pull up your bootstraps_ kind of man, who held his head high and got on with things no matter what. This confrontation was far beyond anything he knew how to do.

"I can see that" she replied. And she could; it was evident in all the anger that bubbled inside Lucien every time he thought nobody was watching. He was equal parts relieved and enraged to be back in this house, and she wondered what memories it must hold, and how many promises were broken here, to have turned what was – by all accounts – a loving and well-to-do family into the broken bird it was now, all mangled feathers and dull colours.

"But he is here now. And he needs you" said Jean, seeking out Thomas's gaze with her own, beseeching. She didn't reach for him, but if they knew each other better she would have taken his hands to push home her point.

"That little girl needs you" she added quietly.

It was cruel to throw Li in his face like that, but at this point Jean was at her wits end. She was not a woman prone to sitting idle and allowing things to happen; if it needed doing, she was the one who got it done. All this fussing and tiptoeing around made her jittery, and she was eager for the Blake's to have it out in a screaming match if only to clear the air and let them all move on to the next stage of healing. She could take the battering – could weather storms and batten down hatches if need be – but holding still while the crackle and charge of something fierce brewed around her set her teeth on edge and made her skin crawl. It was like a summer storm all over again, only far less predictable and only time would tell if this house was built to withstand it.

"I will try again tomorrow" he said. And she knew that was a coward's way of saying _I'm not strong enough to do it today_ , and she tried not to blame him for that.

Jean nodded and took that as her cue to leave. She wouldn't push the point and she wouldn't indulge in Thomas' excuses; it was neither her place nor her problem, though she was invested in seeing the Blake's to rights all the same.

"Leave this" she said, gesturing to the desk. It said a lot that Thomas only nodded and did as she suggested, leaving the mess where it was for the moment.

"I'll go finish the washing up" said Jean, before heading towards the practice door. "Goodnight Doctor"

He looked at her and smiled – a tired, humourless smile. It was a start. "Goodnight Jean" he said.

And then she left Thomas to go and check the state of her kitchen and see that their guests were still around for now. It would do no good to have Lucien Blake run off in the middle of the night while his father was working up the nerve to speak to him in the morning. Tomorrow things would need to be said, but for now they would keep the holding pattern and pray for rain.


	5. Chapter 5

_**A/N:**_ _Thank you for all your feedback and reviews, it's so appreciated. It may be a few weeks before I get a chance to post again, so thank you for your patience, but more is yet to come!_

~0~

Jean was absolutely determined to make amends with Lucien. She wanted so badly to make this house bearable enough for him to stay, and so she walked back towards the kitchen with her head held high and a cheery smile on her face. Perhaps she couldn't convince Thomas to speak with his son tonight – maybe that was asking too much too soon, of everybody. But she could absolutely keep Lucien and Li in good spirits, and hopefully make them see that this storm would pass soon. She desperately wished it would, at any rate; maybe they could all weather it together and then get life back to normal again. Those quiet and boring days of drudgery seemed halcyon compared to this upheaval and the inevitable fallout that would soon follow. The air seemed crisp with all the turmoil yet to come, and Jean was not one to look forward to the bad times, wishing instead to set her mind to making this evening as good as could be managed.

And so Jean walked swiftly and with purpose towards the kitchen, squaring her shoulders the way she always did when there was a battle to be fought and won. But when she passed by the servery window her steps faltered and slowed, so that by the time she was standing at the kitchen door she could walk no further, only stare in shock and awe at the sight before her.

Lucien Blake was washing her dishes.

Or, more specifically, he was helping Li to wash the dishes. A chair was pulled up to the edge of the cabinets, because Li was still a bit too small to reach into the sink comfortably on her own. Lucien stood next to the chair to keep her steady as she buried her hands into the soapy water, and had placed himself right in front of the drainage run to the left of the basin, so he could dry the dishes that Li was passing his way. Jean could see that he had already taken care of the knives – washed and dried and stacked on the bench out of the way, so that they wouldn't cut themselves reaching into the sink. Jean remembered telling her sons the same lesson when they were Li's age; old enough to help around the house in earnest, but still young enough that they needed supervision around sharp objects.

From her place frozen at the door Jean watched the pair for a moment, listening as Lucien quietly showed his daughter what to do.

"That's it, use the cloth – well done. And check underneath as well, because sometimes when we stack them it gets food on the bottom"

Finished with her task, and with her father's oversight, Li did as she was told and then passed him the plate so he could dry it with the towel in his hand. Li was handling the dishes with the same seriousness she handled her book earlier in the day – confident but deliberate, giving it the respect she felt it was owed, and it warmed Jean's heart to watch her be so studious. If they had stayed in Singapore, and if the war hadn't happened, and if Lucien and his wife – god keep her soul wherever she may be – had not been torn apart by circumstance, then little Li would never have need of this lesson. She would have grown up with enough money for house staff, a cook at least, probably a housekeeper as well, and a driver for attending events. She would have been lavished with all the respect and station that her parent's rank in society earned and she would never have need to get her hands dirty with dishes or cleaning or any of the chores that Jean had been doing since she was younger than Li now. Their family would have stayed comfortably well-off, and in all likelihood Jean would never have met them.

But Li was here now, and Lucien was no longer a well-to-do career soldier living abroad, and his wife was still gone – missing, presumed dead, either way it didn't matter for she was not in Australia with them and Lucien had not mentioned her since arriving. Jean assumed their marriage was a happy one, but in truth she knew nothing about it; Thomas never once spoke about his son's family and didn't even know he was a grandfather until a day ago, and Lucien hadn't been home long enough for his long and sorry story to be told. Jean had no concept what their life had been like, but they had parented Li together and Lucien had been well established in Singapore before its demise, and so in her mind she conjured up visions of happiness that were long since lost, adding to the sorrow that these two poor souls had endured. It was partly fanciful, and she chided herself for making their story out to be a gothic novella in her imagination. But Lucien and Li and whatever stories they brought with them were thoroughly exotic – even the fact they had travelled so far was beyond Jean's reach – and so it was with penance that she reminded herself that regardless, they were just people, and they needed as much love and kindness as she could muster. The life they lived when Li was a baby was gone forever, and they were here now, the two of them, conducting menial tasks in the kitchen. They were no longer among diplomats and foreign officials; they were a part of a small country family in Ballarat. A higher class, perhaps, than Jean and her sons, but in any case life would be very different from that which they left behind in Singapore. Jean wondered what it meant for their future that Lucien bothered to teach Li this lesson at all, and she tried not to get her hopes up that he was sowing the seeds of settling here in Ballarat.

"Can I help?" she called out gently, moving forward into the kitchen to stand nearby the sink, right near Li's back. She didn't bother to tell Lucien that he shouldn't have started the dishes, because it would only end in an argument. He was stubborn, she could see, and wilful when it came to getting his way with things, but more than that Jean sensed there was a need to be useful lurking under the surface. He was a doctor, after all; he had dedicated much of his life to helping and healing people, and he was a soldier as well; used to carrying his own burdens and helping his friends to carry theirs. He had seen war and the way it tore people apart. He had lost everything and was still rebuilding himself in the aftermath. If doing the washing up after dinner was his way of contributing to this house, Jean would not begrudge him that, for she knew how difficult it was to sit idle and useless when the soul was used to work and toil. She hated that feeling for herself, so she would not foist it upon Lucien, nor force his position as Master of the house onto him any harder than was necessary. She learned that lesson last night, and needed to keep him on side if there was any hope of him staying, so she only smiled and offered her assistance.

"Hello Missus Beazley" said Li, looking over her shoulder at Jean and smiling. "We are washing up"

Jean couldn't stop herself from grinning at the little girl, and when she looked at Lucien he was too, all the tension from earlier fading from him.

"Yes, I can see that. And you're doing a marvellous job"

Jean looked at the small stack of plates that had already been washed by Li and dried by Lucien and placed on the spare benchtop in neat piles. He finished drying the plate in his hand and placed that on top of the others before looking at Jean with wide and earnest eyes. It was the most calm – the most open – she had seen him, and her smile never wavered as she met his gaze and tried to ask without words what he wanted from her.

"Perhaps when we are done you can show us where everything goes?" he said softly, answering Jean's question and offering an olive branch. Li busied herself fishing out a bread and butter plate from the sink and was washing it with great concentration, and Jean didn't even notice when her own hand reached out and ran up and down the little girl's shoulder blades in a comforting gesture of thanks and kindness.

"I would love to" she replied to Lucien. They gave each other soft smiles, and it felt like the sun shattering through a thin layer of ice.

"I promise I'm being careful" said Li, looking over her shoulder at Jean, her accent evident but her words clear and precises. Her tone was confident but her eyes looked trepidatious, like she was waiting for Jean to be cross with her for handling her crockery. Eager to encourage the girl and make her feel good about being such a help around the house, Jean smiled widely at her, placed a hand on each of her shoulders, and then leaned in and squeezed her in a half hug that didn't jostle her too much.

"I know you are, well done" said Jean, and then released her. In truth they had used the everyday crockery set, which was already missing a plate because it got chipped too badly to keep. The good blue and white set with designs of old British castles was locked away in the antique sideboard, along with the lead crystal and the fine china serving bowls. Though Jean would much prefer not to break any further dishes, in truth Li was doing a wonderful job, and if this set got damaged in any way it wouldn't be the end of the world.

Lucien must have known this, too, because he didn't look at all surprised by Jean's reaction, and carried on watching Li with a soft expression.

For a moment they were quiet and peaceful, absorbed in their task, and then Li passed her father the small plate in her hand and started speaking to them both without looking up.

"The ladies at the orphanage used to hit us with a stick if we broke things when washing up, but I never did because I'm very careful"

All at once a silence dropped over them like a stone in a bucket. Jean's eyes flew to Lucien's face, which had turned white at Li's comment. His eyes were like saucers and he looked to be going into a full blind panic, though of course his experience and training taught him not to show his hand. But Jean could see it – saw the pallor of his skin and the whites of his eyes; her own horror was nothing in comparison to Lucien's obvious distress.

They hadn't talked about Li and where she came from. It was plain to see that there was trauma in the poor girl's life and that Lucien had rescued her from atrocities as yet unacknowledged. But Jean hadn't given thought to the specifics of what that must look like; to the fact that Lucien and Li had been separated for years from one another, and that the war had raged for three more years after Singapore fell, causing chaos and misery in the area. Jean hadn't allowed herself to consider just where these two people had been in the interim, or how difficult it was to find each other again, and now she knew that her silence was an unspoken avoidance. She didn't want to know, not really; she didn't want to imagine this sweet and kind little girl dressed in rags and housed in poverty, cleaning dishes before she could even read, being harshly punished for simply being a child. Happy enough to imagine a life of lavished parties before the war, she hadn't given any time of day to the intervening years since. She knew they were pure misery and had enough of her own scars to bear. Jean didn't want to know any of it, and by his expression Lucien knew far too much, and together their horror forced them into silence.

Li looked unperturbed by her own comment, and that was perhaps the saddest part of all.

She carried on washing her plate, and when Lucien didn't immediately take it from her when she offered it, she looked up at him in askance and slight annoyance. She was frustrated that their system, which worked so well for the other dishes, was failing, and couldn't see why he faltered. The look on his daughter's face was enough to break Lucien from his reverie, and he took the clean dish with a tight smile, his face still pained. He looked at Jean over the top of Li's head while he wiped it dry, and she felt needed in that moment. She felt like he was reaching out to her. She was learning that he was a perceptive man – hard to read but evidently skilled at reading others, so much so that hardly any words were needed between them as he sought out her comfort and she freely gave it to him.

"Perhaps I'll make us a cup of tea" said Jean after a moment. She turned away and collected the kettle from the stove before either Lucien or Li could comment. She lifted it, felt that it was heavy enough for all of them to have a hot drink, and then busied herself lighting the stovetop and collecting down enough cups and saucers for everyone. She hesitated at grabbing a fourth cup, and then decided against it with a small huff to herself; if Thomas was going to avoid the world and sequester himself in his room - undoubtedly still awake but pretending otherwise - then she wouldn't grace his attitude with a cup of tea. Let him come out and get it himself if he wants one, she thought, and though it was completely uncharitable she was just about at her wits end with the whole lot of them. Li's small comment had put it all into stark perspective for her, and any further unease seemed trivial at best.

They carried on like that until everything was washed and stacked in piles on the bench, and Li pulled the plug in the sink with a satisfied grin. The kettle whistled right on time and Jean turned off the stove and then turned to watch Lucien help Li off her chair.

"Right" said Jean, her hands on her hips. "Now we put them away"

Li stood to attention, still smiling, and pointed at the sideboard on the other wall.

"The plates go in that one" she said confidently. She had seen Jean pull out the dinner plates earlier in the night, but memory still made Jean smile at her and nod, rather impressed by her recall.

"Yes they do, very good"

They watched as Li took stock of the height of the cupboard – it was eyeline with adults and definitely out of her reach – and then the chair by the sink. She assessed her situation with such rigour that Jean smothered a smirk to watch her; Li was determined to come up with a solution as to how the plates could possibly make it from the bench to their final resting place, but Jean took pity on her when it was evident it was too much of a task.

"Perhaps we can ask your father to help?" said Jean, looking to Lucien, who was also trying to hide is amusement at them both as he leaned against the bench with his arms crossed over his chest.

Li nodded her agreement. "Papa, can you please put the plates in the cupboard?" she said, turning to him expectantly.

"I certainly can" he said, and spun around to collect and put them away.

"And while he's doing that, can you please help me with the cutlery?" said Jean, gesturing to the small and neat piles on the bench. She and Li collected them up and put them in the top draw, making sure they went in the correct parts of the divider. The last two things left were a serving dish that Jean had put the vegetables in, and the meat tray that the meatloaf had been carved on.

"This one" said Jean, lifting up the metal tray, "goes in the cupboard just next to the stove."

Li opened the cupboard for her and Jean placed the tray inside, stacked on top of a few others inside.

"And this one" said Jean, pointing to the dish, "goes in the bottom cupboard, under where all the plates are"

Li collected the dish and walked it to the sideboard as Lucien opened the bottom cupboard for her so that she didn't have to sacrifice a hand to do it herself. There was a free spot right in front where she placed the dish down, and then she closed the cupboards forcefully and turned to them all with a look on her face that was proud, while trying not to be prideful. It was the look of a child who knew they had done a good job, yet still needed to hear it from others. It was a hopeful little expression that warmed Jean's heart and put to rest her worries over the child's past, if only for a moment.

"Well done" she said. "Thank you for all your help, that's wonderful"

And because she knew he played a significant part, her eyes also flicked to Lucien. She found him watching her, softness in his gaze that she couldn't quite place, and he no longer looked like a horse ready to bolt at the first sign of trouble. All day she felt like walking on eggshells around him; with Li he was gentle and easy-going, but the moment she was gone a shadow fell over Lucien that Jean felt confronted by, and a bit frightened of – one of a man completely haunted by his own company and ready to fall into a pit of despair without a moment's notice. That shadow wasn't there now and it took her breath away to see him be so open. He looked, for lack of a better phrase, right at home. A wave of self-consciousness washed over Jean, and she had a momentary need to check her hair and fix her apron straight. It was silly; minutes ago she was plotting ways to make sure he didn't pack his bags and leave, and now he was standing in her kitchen looking like this evening was their usual routine – like cleaning up together was as practiced as a married couple.

He was definitely handsome, she would give him that. Rested and fed he looked striking; his beard was still shabby but his eyes were captivating and under his baggy clothes he was tall and strong. But it wasn't just his good looks that crossed her mind; Christopher had been a wonderfully handsome man, and several others in town were dashing and showed interest in the widow Beazley, but a well-cut jawline had never really been the thing to turn her head so much as a warm smile and kind eyes. It wasn't just that Lucien was good-looking and was looking at her; it was that he seemed to really _see_ her. He seemed grateful for her, and for her reaction to their help. Jean had to wonder what he expected; did he think she would scorn him and his child for showing up here? Did he think she would be cross that he and Li helped and did half her evening chores for her? Did he really think her so cold and callous? As his father said last night, this was the Blake house and he had as much claim to it as anyone, which was a world beyond her stake.

Perhaps he was simply unused to basic kindness, and that only made her more determined to show him more of it.

"Right" she said, breaking away from Lucien's piercing gaze with great force. "Tea"

She set herself to rights while she prepared the leaves and let the pot steep, and heard Lucien and Li settle themselves at the table behind her. Already they had claimed customary seats, and she tried not to smile at the thought. Regardless of how much Thomas avoided them or how angry everyone seemed to get, there was goodness here too, in quiet moments such as this when they could settle after a decent meal and enjoy a warm drink and a tranquil evening. The summery storm of the previous night had given way to a warm and blustery day, and now the evening was tepid and calm – clear skies meant the temperature would drop again overnight but there were no clouds for now and that would do well for tomorrow's weather.

Jean served them up their tea, and because Li did not have a hot cocoa this time Jean even put a small shortbread on each of their saucers, which delighted the child to no end. They sat together in near silence. There would be time to talk later, when all of the muck was cleared away; when cobwebs didn't sit in the corners where all the past hurts of this house were left untouched. There would be time to learn about one another a little better, and start making plans for the future with all four of them still hopefully under this one roof. There would be time.

But for now things still felt on tenterhooks, the mood ready to turn on a hair's breadth, and so Jean relished the quiet and the peace. She took comfort in the way Li sipped at her tea – never prepared with milk and sugar before, and therefore very new and exciting for her – and found solace in the company of another adult in the house, even if they were still figuring each other out. She didn't let her mind wander too far, choosing to stay right in a wonderful tiny moment, and that seemed far better than any fancy she could dream up.


	6. Chapter 6

_**A/N:**_ _I very nearly split this chapter in two, but that would have been indulgent. Instead (and because it'll be a while before I update) I'm giving you an extra-long one, and I hope you enjoy!_

 _TW: Jean's past (miscarriage)._

~0~

Jean squealed in delight as Li splashed water at her, just enough to get bubbles over her apron. She was sitting next to the bath while Li washed herself and enjoyed the leisure of uninhibited bubble moustaches. Though they had quickly washed in the morning using a flannel, Jean knew neither traveller had a chance to really decompress after their journey from Melbourne, so when she suggested a long evening soak Li had jumped at the chance. Jean was using a cup to rinse out the last of the shampoo from the girl's hair, which was built up with muck and oils from all the travel. She carded her fingers through the strands – thicker and courser than her own, but straight and falling halfway down her back. It was beautiful, and different, and a wave of sadness washed over Jean as she thought about what might have been. Her own daughter would have been nineteen – the same age Jean was when she lost her – and tending to Li was giving her just a taste of what that life might have looked like. She wasn't one to dwell on the possibilities of a path so denied to her by God, but sometimes she watched little girls going about their business down the street or in the medical practice and thought, _you could have been mine._

Li was a revelation – serious with her tasks at hand, no doubt hard-learned in the orphanage she referenced, but otherwise a sprightly and wilful girl. She could turn reticent at the drop of a hat, but left to her own devices she was sweet and full of smiles and eager to talk now that she had re-grasped her first language. Jean could see Lucien's care in her; could see that her spirit had been built back up by her father's love, and that he rallied to ensure she could remain a child despite the atrocities she had seen. He encouraged her to learn only as much as her ability would allow, and didn't push her where other parents might have demanded better. He gave her space to figure things out and yet encouraged her questions all the same. Some might call it indulgent, and in time it would be, but at this stage of their journey it was exactly what Li needed to flourish. Knowing he had schooled her thus far, and reignited her English skills, and instilled manners and deference into her countenance, Jean marvelled at them. They were such a formidable team, and it was any wonder they relied on one another, for they proved to be far better together than apart.

Part of her felt humbled, and another shamed. Lucien had managed to do all that despite his own troubles, and yet Jean had struggled so spectacularly from the safety of Ballarat. It wasn't the same – she knew in her mind that their circumstances were completely incomparable – but in many ways she felt one-upped by Lucien Blake, and that chaffed at her. How had he succeeded with his child where she had failed with hers? How was he so much more natural at this than she, a mother? What was his secret?

It was unkind to ask, and so Jean sent up a prayer to God as apology for her thoughts.

She watched Li play for a little while yet, running cotton wool soaked in olive oil through the length of her hair to condition it and stop quite so many split ends. The hairdresser would be the first visit in town, if Jean had anything to say about it, but for now it would do.

And then when the water started to cool beyond comfort, she grab up a large bath sheet and wrapped it around Li as she stepped into her arms. It became like a short embrace, Jean holding her close while they worked to rub away all the water. Li leaned into her just a bit, trusting her touch, and that felt like acceptance as it warmed her heart. Jean took a hand towel and used it to dab Li's hair, and then wrapped it up so it wouldn't drip all over her shoulders.

The girl's clothes were yet to be washed – Lucien's rucksack was still packed and in his room, which made Jean rather anxious – so she had fished out one of her old cotton nighties with long sleeves and a frill at the collar, and gave that to Li to wear for the night. With her hair all wrapped in its towel, Jean helped her pull the nightie over her head, and then they smiled at each other. It swam on her, but with the sleeves rolled up it just grazed Li's feet, and so worked out to be the perfect size. Jean tweaked Li's chin with her thumb and forefinger, and she grinned in return. In the morning Jean would bring down their things to wash and dry, and maybe that would force them to stay. After all, they couldn't cart wet washing around town.

"Come on you" said Jean, opening the bathroom door for Li and leading her gently out by one shoulder, "let's get you settled into bed"

As she stepped into the blue room Jean started fussing with Li's hair again, unwrapping the towel from her head to start patting it dry. It warmed her heart that Li let her do it. There was a lot about this sweet girl that Jean was rapidly becoming endeared to; it was no longer just for the Doctor's sake that she wanted their guests to stay.

And then their quiet little moment was shattered completely.

Jean heard it before Li did. The voices from downstairs getting louder and more vicious. She was running the towel over the girl's hair when the noise finally floated upstairs loud enough for them to make it out properly. _I would never treat my child the way you treated me_ , roared Lucien, presumably from the kitchen, given the tambour and echo that accompanied it.

 _I gave you everything_ , was the reply – just as loud, yet somehow less of a shout.

"Papa" whispered Li, her eyes wide. Before Jean could comprehend what was happening Li had bolted from her grip and run down the stairs to her father's defence. Jean followed desperately behind. She wanted to cry out for the girl to stop, but it would be no good, for she was already half way down the staircase, her tiny feet making barely any sound as she clambered towards the kitchen.

~0~

Barely an hour after dinner Lucien was sitting in the kitchen by himself, contemplating the bottom of his now-empty tea cup as he tried not to feel too morose. Jean had taken Li upstairs for her bath, and Lucien had made himself another tea just for something to do in the meantime. He tried not to focus on any one thing, which was easier when he had Li to look after – she provided a constant distraction and kept him occupied enough that he never had to be left alone with his own thoughts. But in her absence it all felt rather too much again. No one singular thought grabbed him, but more like a dull throbbing of pain and misery and anguish; too many hurts to unravel and not enough time to process any of them; his captivity, his daughter's abandonment, his wife's death, the friends he had lost, the pain of being back in his father's house, his mother's death still hiding in the corners and ghosts of Ballarat lurking behind the locked studio door… with Li he could pretend it was all fine and put one foot in front of the other until he passed out in bed at the end of each day. He feared the person he was without her. The bottles he could easily lose himself in. The trouble he could go seeking.

He still knew people in South-East Asia who could put his particular intelligence skillsets to use quite readily. He'd been good at the work in the years before Singapore fell – he could be good at it again, and Derek had already approached him about re-joining after the war. But with Li to look out for he declined him and instead set his mind to getting himself and his daughter out of the area and back to Australia.

He shuddered to think what he would do with himself – and to himself – if he didn't have that singular focus, yet bore the same scars.

He was startled from his thoughts by the sound of footsteps. At first his eyes looked up in hope – he looked forward to seeing his daughter and Jean walk back through the door, even though he told them he would go up to them to say goodnight when Li was settled. But his face fell just as suddenly, and he looked back down to his hands.

Thomas had come to fix himself a cup of tea.

He obviously thought the room unoccupied – no doubt heard the laughter and ruckus upstairs and assumed they had all retreated and left him to fend for himself. It was plain to see he was equally shocked and troubled to see his son still seated at the kitchen table.

He faltered for only a moment before he continued wordlessly on his way to the stove.

"He lives" said Lucien bitterly. His eyes were downcast and dark, and though he wasn't looking to stir trouble he couldn't help but poke the bear all the same. Without Li there to temper his anger Lucien was a different man – wound tight and ready to strike, and more than capable of killing a man if it came to it. Thomas shuddered to think that he probably had done, at some point. His son looked feral and wild, like a lion caught in a cage far too small for his body, with a smell of meat in the air to tempt him. It was a troubling thought that Thomas himself was the meat.

He didn't respond, but he did straighten his back and stood his full height, challenging his son without words. He filled the kettle again and set it on the stove, lighting the gas with a match and then shaking it out when he was done – all without looking at his son. And then, when the water was set to boil, he turned around looked at Lucien for a long, silent moment, and then turned his back and resumed his task of preparing a teacup for himself.

"Are you going to say anything?"

Thomas started to hear his son's voice, but still he did not turn back around.

"I was under the impression you didn't want to hear what I have to say"

The letters. He was referring to the letters. Thomas had sent half-a-dozen over the years that had been returned unopened and now lived in a box hidden away in the studio. _I didn't have anything further to say._ And yet there was still so much left to be resolved between them. Lucien scoffed at his father's comment, outraged and angry and wounded all in one – he was trying, God was he trying so hard to start any kind of dialogue with his father. But in truth they had never really spoken to one another. Theirs was a relationship of stilled half-sentences and lengthy silences. His father had been a cold man, unaccustomed to the needs of children. Yes, he could mend their wounds and diagnose their illnesses, and even pacify them long enough to check their throats. But in truth he had been ill-equipped to deal with parenthood. He was a hard man of his time; he had seen the suffering of the Great War throughout Lucien's childhood, and been long-raised in the belief that children were to be seen and not heard.

Lucien had been such a caring, sweet boy, guided by his mother's natural effervescence and his own soft nature. He was too young to have known the horrors of the war when he was little, only that men got hurt and many older brothers and fathers never returned from it. He had no interest back then in playing at violence; he was a boy who loved books and long hugs, who never played dirty at cricket though he was naturally very good, and he spent summers fishing in ponds for yabbies and throwing them back. Thomas had thought him weak – loved him dearly but wanted him to buck up and turn his cheekiness to studiousness. They were fundamentally different in every way, but more than that they couldn't understand each other at all. Thomas didn't know how to love a son who sought only his time and his patience. And so, when tragedy struck in the most horrific of ways, his wife's unorthodox life catching up to her in a scandalous death, Thomas had done all he knew how to do in the midst of his grief; he entrusted his son's care to the nuns in Melbourne. They would straighten him out, he figured. They would know what to do with a boy that was so bright, so capable, and yet harboured his mother's flights of fancy.

Lucien needed direction and discipline. By sending him away Thomas truly thought he was providing it, far better than he could have done on his own.

He didn't know – he couldn't have expected – that his son would hate him so much for it. That they would drift so far apart, even before the war. Boarding school had focussed Lucien enough to seek out medical school, but he had twisted a dagger in his father's heart when he announced he would be off to Edinburgh to do it. Thomas was proud – of course he was proud, and took every opportunity in those days to boast that his son was studying to be a doctor in Britain – but he had seen the signs even then. He sent Lucien away, and the bed he had to lie in was Lucien never coming back. He would follow in his father's vocation but he would not return to Ballarat and take over the family practice. He would not marry a nice country wife and attend the Club and have a multitude of children for Thomas to preside over. No, Lucien took himself off to Scotland, and from there joined the British Army as a doctor. He remained overseas, returning only once before the War started to announce his engagement to a Chinese girl.

Thomas had spurned him because of his own grief – he knew all too well the difficulty of justifying a marriage to a foreigner, no matter how much love there was between two people. He wanted Lucien to forget the war, and forget that girl, and come home to Ballarat to fulfil what he thought was his familial duty. He said as much to his son when he returned, and with that final rejection Lucien had taken himself off to Singapore, doing God-knows-what for the Army until the city fell.

And thus Thomas was angry at him. He was furious that all the pain and suffering his son had endured could have easily been avoided if he only _listened_. If he only heeded his father's guidance and done as he was told. If he was tougher, and sterner, and did as he was supposed to do and didn't spend so much of his damned life trying to prove his father wrong, Lucien would have been _safe_ , and _well_ , and Thomas could have fulfilled his promise to his wife to love and cherish their family for as long as he lived. If Lucien had been more like himself and less like Genevieve, things would have been very different for them all, and far less damaged.

And if Thomas was harsh, it was only from love. That had to count for something.

But he had no leg to stand on now, and that kept him off-kilter and in hiding, like a cowardly lion licking his wounds. He could not lord over his son the way he used to – _I know better_ felt empty now that Lucien had gained life experiences of his own.

Faced with the same circumstances – a child to care for, a world in utter turmoil, a wife who he presumed was passed – and with the full cruelness of captivity and war under his belt as well, Lucien had done what Thomas never could. He had survived long enough to regain his daughter, and spent years battling with governments to be allowed to bring her home. He had put aside his own heartache for the sake of Li and done it willingly, with love, so that the girl loved her father deeply rather than spurning him for his errors.

Thomas was a proud man, used to being respected and deferred to and _right_ , and he didn't like being confronted with all of his own failings with such startling clarity. It made him immediately combative. He and Lucien were alike in that way, or at least they were _now_. Neither liked being backed into a corner.

"What was the point" started Lucien through clenched teeth, "of welcoming us into your house if you are going to ignore us the entire time?"

"I would hardly call it ignoring-"

But Lucien had found his voice now. His anger had boiled to the point of eruption, and perhaps he could sense his father's weakened position for he stood from his seat with such force that his chair flung backwards, his fists planted knuckles-down on the table, his eyes manic and darkened with rage.

"You didn't look at me once through our entire meal" he said, "not once"

His fist pounded the table in frustration, and there were tears in his eyes – so many words left unsaid battled to get out in a way that made any sense at all, and the hurt found its way through every crack in his façade. Lucien had spent years ignoring it – finding ways to move past it, and find happiness in his wife and child, in the life they lived together. And it worked – for many years he had been light as a feather and free as a bird, living to the full extent that he could with laughter and joy, finding solace in good company and making a life that was full of peace. Lucien had never once let his father's rejection make him bitter and twisted; no, instead the war had done a fine job of that.

Thomas finally gave up the pretence of preparing tea and turned around to look Lucien in the eye.

"I don't know what you want me to say", he said, and for once he let his guard down and showed his frustration. He let Lucien see that he was so very lost. Under all the reserved manners and tailored suits and old-worldly sense of modesty was a man drowning and desperate to make amends, with no idea how to do it. And no ability to back down, either.

But Lucien couldn't – or wouldn't – see it through the cloud of his own hurt. He had been a child in need of his one surviving parent; he had been a young man seeking his father's guidance and acceptance. He was now a father trying to land his feet on safe ground for the sake of his own daughter. He had sought out the one place he knew would not have changed; the one place he knew would look and feel exactly as it did twenty years ago, familiar to him, no matter that there were lingering grievances.

Lucien was a drowning man, but his father seemed completely unwilling to throw in the lifebouy.

"You don't need me to give you small talk" said Thomas. He would not concede, not yet, not like this.

"Any talk at all would have sufficed" Lucien bit back, louder now, and he straightened his spine as he confronted his father. "To myself or to Li"

It was a low blow to include the innocent child in this fight that went back long before she was born, but it also felt true. In the subsequent war between two stubborn men Li had been caught in a crossfire that reignited all the hypervigilance and quietness Lucien worked so hard to overcome. It angered him to no end.

"Or are you afraid of what we might say back?"

Thomas flinched at the truth of the accusation. Lucien was right, and he knew it. In one fell swoop he had cut to the quick of the matter, unveiling Thomas' greater fear that his failings would be cast into light for all to see. He had very few things of substance left to cling to as he aged – his extended family and all their money had abandoned him years ago, and his son soon followed. He had his good name as a doctor and a few friends in town who deferred to him with great respect. He had Jean's respect too, which was no small thing. But such sentiments were contingent on upholding a particular standard of person, and never stepping out of line, and Thomas had proudly toed that line all his life. Here Lucien stood, now, questioning his choices so thoroughly that Thomas felt his world of decorum and pretence slipping away, and underneath was nothing but the dust of disappointments he had left in his wake through a series of actions that had felt so right at the time. He had never once questioned himself so deeply, on so many levels. If Lucien was correct, then all of the pride that came before this moment was for nothing. His wife, his son, and now his town would leave him should he be unable to welcome Lucien back into the fold. Should he be unable to lay down his sword.

God only knew what Jean must think of it all, eager though she was to tend to them.

Thomas refused to concede ground, but he couldn't help but be humbled in the face of the truth, like a penitent approaching the confessional.

"I know I have hurt you before, Lucien", he said with his eyes downcast but his tone firm, "but none of us are perfect, and in the fullness of time I'm sure you will also-"

His humility must have rung false in Lucien's ears, or else the implication that he would have done the exact same in Thomas' place was so forbidden a concept, that before he could finish speaking Lucien was practically bellowing across the kitchen, "I would never treat my child the way you treated me."

And like a cat caught in a corner, unable to run away, Thomas hissed back.

"I gave you everything", he said, his voice louder than he had used in years, the indignation shining brightly as he desperately clung to the idea that by providing his son with boarding and education he had set him up well for life. Anything that befell Lucien after the fact was no problem of Thomas', or so he told himself as his own composure looked set to crumble. "And still you come here looking for more"

"I came here looking for help" cried Lucien. His voice broke and a single angry tear fell on his cheek. "I came here because they might have killed us both if we had stayed"

It was true, to varying degrees. In some fashion or another he and Li may very well have died if they stayed in China. And Thomas must have seen the level of distress on his son's face for his shoulders sagged under the weight of the confession and his mouth – ready with the next snappy retort – closed at once. And yet still, or perhaps because he was being attacked so forcefully, Thomas would not give up the only ground he had left to stand on.

"And you have it", he said. "But being welcome to stay does not mean you are entitled to my good humour"

It was ridiculous how quickly Lucien riled him up and brought out his worst. There was a coldness in Thomas that took root the day he buried his wife in the ground, and a viciousness when it came to anything that might threaten to further tear down his walls. Few men had seen it and fewer still would believe it existed. But he was a man capable of locking his heart away so tightly that he felt no remorse when he needed to land a final piercing blow to a threat. That it was his son in front of him was no matter. Lucien was safe, and his daughter was well enough. Thomas didn't need to know more than that. Or so he told himself.

"Well don't trouble yourself, _father_ , because we won't be staying much longer"

Lucien gave his father one last biting look, determined that his parting words would be a jab that would last with him for years to come. But both men startled when, from the doorway, a high and loud feminine voice cried out deep and low like a school principal.

" _Enough_ "

They both looked towards the sound, and found Jean standing in the kitchen doorway at her fullest height, her brow furrowed in blind fury, one hand on her hip. Her other hand was resting just behind her, shielding Li at her back like a mother bear would her cubs. The girl's dark eyes were focussed on Lucien, while Jean flicked her gaze between the two men equally; chiding them like the naughty children she found them to be. It was brave of her, to stand forward and confront them thus, but Li had run towards the room so swiftly that Jean's first thought was protecting the girl, and the few things she heard of the conversation convinced her that it was nothing she needed to hear.

"That is quite enough of that" said Jean to them all.

They stayed still as posts until – degree by agonising degree – the tension in the room lowered enough for Jean to relax her hackles. Behind Thomas' back the kettle started whistling, and he took the opportunity to break the stalemate and turn around to take it off the heat, turning off the stove. It was a long moment before he faced the room again. Li came forward under Jean's arm, one of the frills in the collar of her nightie stuck in her mouth. She was looking between her father and grandfather with apprehension, and didn't move towards either of them any further, content to stay in the relative calm of Jean's embrace. Lucien looked positively sick at the sight of her avoiding him.

"Now" said Jean. "It is very late. And we are all very tired"

Nobody dared to question her.

"I think we should turn in and deal with this in the morning"

Were it not for the fact Li was under her arm, Lucien probably would have told Jean to go shove her morning, and said the same to his father as well. He was still keyed up and emotional from their brief confrontation, and of a mind to go and get his bag and march right out of the house into the night. But there was nowhere else to go this time of night; it would be downright foolish to leave now. And Li still looked quite terrified, but content enough with Jean that it decided it for Lucien. He would stay just for tonight, to make sure his daughter was taken care of, and then first thing in the morning they would get on the road again, as far from Ballarat as he could manage.

Thomas was of a mind to argue with Jean as well, unaccustomed to having his housekeeper tell him what to do. But he could see that she was furious with him. When she told him to speak with his son, this was not the encounter she had in mind, and now that the tension had eased Thomas felt like a right twit. He had let his anger get the better of him and behaved no better than a rowdy schoolboy in a fist fight. It was shameful behaviour, and he deserved the telling-off she gave him.

Not that he would admit as much to her face.

"Quite right" said Thomas, pulling at his waistcoat to straighten it. "I think I will forgo my tea"

And he walked towards the door with the manner of a man taking a Sunday stroll, never once looking behind him.

"Goodnight all" he called, and then disappeared before Lucien could say anything in retort. Jean ignored him completely, her eyes focussed on Lucien in warning. _Do not_ , they said, and because Li was still watching him like a hawk, he didn't. But only just.

His entire countenance was pent up, so much so that he couldn't even calm himself enough to fool his daughter that all was well. His father's hasty retreat had left him floundering with no other direction to point his indignation than inwards. He ran a hand over his face, dragging it slowly over his mouth and beard, and then looked up at the ceiling as his eyes welled with tears of frustration that he didn't allow to fall. It was ridiculous – he could face down a battalion of Japanese soldiers for the sake of a tin of pineapple, but one barely-there confrontation with his father sent him into a tailspin.

Jean let him have a moment, sensing this would not be made easier having an audience. She turned and leaned down towards little Li, her arm still wrapped around the girl's back.

"It's alright, sweetheart", she cooed softly. "Let's get you up to bed"

"Papa?" she asked, her voice whisper soft.

"Papa will be up in just a minute, he's right behind us"

Jean looked up at Lucien in askance, begging him to pull himself together. Li needed him to remain strong for just a little while longer – they had faced and won battles against bigger dragons than this; one more night wouldn't hurt anybody. Lucien nodded in acquiescence. He sniffed and sighed away his tears and his bad mood, and then swallowed the lump in his throat. That done he faced Li with a watery smile, and nodded his encouragement.

"Let's go, little one", he said. "It is long past your bedtime"

Jean prodded and encouraged the girl to walk ahead of her out of the kitchen once more, leaving her hand on her shoulder so she knew someone was there. She would fix Li's hair for the night, and then return downstairs to turn out the lights and lock up, but first she would see everyone safely ensconced in their rooms and out of each other's way. Jean could sense Lucien at her back behind her as they rounded the corner into the hallway, and she could practically feel his hot breath on her neck as he whispered softly to her.

"Thank you"

She didn't have anything further to say – _you're welcome_ would seem like she did it for him, which she decidedly did not. _Any time_ felt like a concession to it happening again, which she refused to entertain. _My pleasure_ was a bald-faced lie. In the end Jean could only nod in acknowledgement, and followed Li silently up the stairs, feeling all the while the strong presence of Lucien one step behind her.


	7. Chapter 7

**_A/N:_** _I'm back! Thank you for your patience. I was off having fun in a different hemisphere with no computer. Now I'm home again and back on the writing train, so should have some more frequent updates for you. As always, enjoy!_

~0~

It was not a specific sound that woke Jean from her sleep the following night. Perhaps it was the wind, blowing against the window just when she was at the lightest part of sleep, or maybe she had a sixth sense for others in the house being awake in the middle of the night. But whatever it was she was pulled from the dead of sleep so suddenly that she was wide awake in a moment, staring at her ceiling with her ears sharp. It was like when the boys were little and one of them was sick. She listened into the night for any hint or sign. She listened for any disturbance just down the hall.

After all, Lucien had stayed in the end.

After the argument downstairs Jean helped him put Li to bed in the blue room, and then they danced around each other for a moment, trying to be friendly as the tension from Thomas' confrontation abated. She left them that evening convinced they wouldn't be there in the morning, and had been shocked and delighted to find Li at the kitchen table dressed and ready for breakfast, a full day of reading in the garden already in her mind.

Lucien spent the day looking through the classifieds for lodgings, but each time he saw an advertisement for long-term rooms it asked for a down-payment and ongoing proof of employment. He soon realised that until he sorted out his work situation, he was stuck at his father's house with little money and even less patience. So many of his personal resources had been spent tracking down his daughter and relocating them back home, so that no landlord in their right mind would take a bachelor and a child without some assurance of ongoing payment. It had taken Jean no less than three cups of tea and four hours to coax him out of his ensuing foul mood, but she managed it with impressive grace. Thankfully (though not for the poor chap on the morgue table) Thomas had been called out for the whole afternoon and evening on police business, which gave the house a small reprieve, and Jean a fighting chance to keep Lucien on-side.

And now it was their third night in Ballarat, and she was flung from sleep for reasons she couldn't pinpoint.

Knowing she wouldn't settle again until she investigated, Jean pulled herself from bed and wrapped herself in a pink fluffy robe (newly bought in town after an especially cold winter last year; comfortable, if not terribly fashionable). She padded barefoot out the door, and hovered there in the hallway, her ears straining in the quiet. The door to the single room was ajar – Li was asleep in there, at her own request, which Jean took as a very positive sign indeed for the two of the guests staying. But the child was still nervous in a strange house, and so only agreed to sleep in the single room all night if both her door and Lucien's were left open, should she need him. The lamp on the side table in the hallway was also left on for Li, which illuminated Jean's way as she stood just outside her own room listening for noise.

And then she heard what she was searching for; a soft sound, emanating from the blue room.

Inching forward, Jean was wary of intruding. It could easily be Li waking up her father, or just as likely it may be Lucien dreaming; it would be rare indeed if the two of them didn't suffer nightmares, given their past. But as Jean came closer to the door she could make out the noise a little better, and it caused her heart to clench. It was Lucien, and he was crying.

Careful not to stand in the light and give away her position, Jean peaked through the gap in the door and watched him for a moment, soft and messy sobs wracking his shoulders as he tried to stifle the sound. He was seated with his back towards the door, but angled just enough for Jean to peak around him. A small wooden box was open in his lap where he sat at the foot of the bed, and he was holding some kind of paper in the lamplight of his room. After a moment Jean realised they were photographs, and her heart squeezed even tighter; she could only image what stories they told, and she could remember many countless nights that she had sat on her own bed and wept over the few mementos she had left of Christopher. Even now, the grief still felt raw on her nerves some nights, and she had to fight the urge to be maudlin and weep over her own photographs.

Lucien placed his hand over his mouth as he looked over the contents of the small box, rivulets of tears tracking his cheeks over and again, and Jean couldn't bear to see him in such pain. She wanted to leave him alone to wallow in his grief, as was his right, and if not for Li just across the hall she would have gone quietly back to her room. But then she worried for the girl; if Li woke and found her father in this state it would only confuse and distress her, and Jean was quickly becoming far too attached to the girl to allow her further upset.

Before she could really think it through – other than to quickly press her hand against her pin curls and put aside her embarrassment over Lucien seeing them – Jean knocked gently on the door and called out in a whispered voice.

"Lucien?"

He started at the sound of her voice and sniffed, wiping a hand over his face though it was pointless to try and hide his tears.

"Jean" he answered. She took that as her permission to enter the room, and gave him the courtesy of ignoring the state of his face.

"Can I get you anything?" she asked kindly. There was little point in asking if he was alright, as it was evident he was far from it.

"No" he replied quickly, practiced. He continued to look away from her, his back almost complete to her, and she didn't take offence. "No, thank you. Did I wake you?"

He looked up at her as he asked, and his eyes looked suddenly concerned and very caring – the expression spoke of his genuine distress at the thought of having disturbed her with his own melancholy, and she was so taken by the gesture, and so profoundly empathetic to the reasons for his anguish, that she didn't have the heart to tell him the truth.

"I was just getting a glass of water" she said. She knew God would forgive her that small fib.

"I'm sorry" he said anyway, and Jean stepped closer to him, almost level with him, in order to take a look at the photo in his hand over his shoulder. Lucien let her, a gift that she did not take lightly. She knew how difficult it was to share such deep pain, the urge to hold something so precious closer to the heart and not let anyone else touch it lest they taint the memory. For months after the news of Christopher's death she locked away his clothes, and didn't allow anybody to touch them, not even the boys. They were hers, to mourn over and to treasure, for as long as they held his scent. Jean knew that Lucien was a brave man, but by him allowing her to look at his pictures she could also see his enormous capacity for empathy. He was letting her into his private world, and she gave that gesture the reverence it deserved.

The sound of his voice, when he eventually did speak, startled her.

"I locked our most prized possessions in a safety-deposit box before in city fell" he said. "It was raided of course, looted. But I found these few pictures"

He gestured to them. The one on top was a family portrait of Lucien, his wife, and an unmistakable Li, though she was barely a toddler in her mother's arms. Given what she knew of Singapore, Jean imagined the photos must have been taken only weeks before the city fell. She searched the faces for any sign of the trouble to come – did they know, she wondered, as they sat for these portraits, that it would be the last surviving vestige of the family they once were. Had Lucien foreseen, from his position within the armed forces, the ruin that was to become of their home and their lives.

But there was nothing of the pain or ensuing sorrow in the gazes of Lucien or his wife. Little Li was delighted and giggling to the camera, too small to know anything but the trusted embrace of her parents. There was no hint that they knew it was coming, and that made tears well in Jean's eyes unbidden and mournful. In the picture they looked so carefree and happy, Lucien standing proud as punch over the family he had created. Jean very nearly wept for the fate that became them.

"It's all I have left of her now" said Lucien, voice thick. "All Li has"

He didn't tell Jean about the brooch, found buried in the midst of the pictures and burnt paperwork and now sitting at the bottom of the wooden box, and he could not say exactly why. There was no reason to keep such a thing secret; he bought his wife a gift and never got to give it to her, and it seemed that a part of him - a selfish, greedy part - didn't want to taint such a beautiful thing with its own reality. Perhaps one day he would give it to Li as a present, and if that day came it would be hers, not her mothers. Or perhaps he would find love again, and be able to give such a woman this jewel from the Orient to show his appreciation. Either way, it was a mere trinket when he bought it and it remained a memento ever since, and so Lucien stayed quiet about the brooch, and instead handed Jean the picture of his tiny broken family when she held our her hand in gentle askance.

He didn't look at her, but he imagined Jean's eyes travelling over their faces, mapping the man he used to be, summing up the woman he had spurned his father to marry. Jean was not a judgemental woman, but she was traditional, and she seemed happy with her life in Ballarat. Lucien wondered what she must think of the whole damned mess.

"She's beautiful, Lucien" said Jean softly. At the sound of such gentle kindness, more tears sprung to his eyes, and all at once his heart hardened in defence and grief, determined not to be a source of her sympathy.

"She's gone" he replied tersely, and he took the photo back from her and placed it in the box with the others, closing the lid with finality. He placed it on the floor just under the bed, and then while he was leaning that way he collected up a silver hipflask – evidently something he kept hidden from ordinary view – and in one fluid motion had unbuckled the top and took a large gulp from it. Jean watched the transformation in silent horror; so swiftly had he turned from grieving husband to brutish drunk that her head very nearly spun around her shoulders.

Lucien spared her a quick glance, just to confirm that she was as mortified as he imagined her to be, and then looked back down at the flask and took another swig for good measure.

"One of life's few consolations" he said to the wall, refusing to look at her, unable to bear the look of reproach he would find in her.

Jean knew their conversation must be over, for him to behave this way. A part of her knew that he was lashing out – goading her, giving her an excuse to be repulsed by him – and she took the same view as if he was a child throwing a tantrum. She didn't have time to play these silly games of emotional cat-and-mouse, certainly not in the middle of the night. And she definitely wouldn't let Lucien Blake think he had the better of her just because he could evidently throw back his whiskey. She had more dignity than that, and more self-respect than to try and challenge him with her own basket of nightmares.

"Well then" she said, straightening her spine. "If that's all. Goodnight"

She made to move for the door, and nodded at him in finality. It shocked her when he called out to halt her retreat, his countenance at once deflated and defeated.

"Jean, wait" he said, turning to face her back. "I'm sorry"

Staring at the door of his room, Jean took in a slow and deep breath. She felt conflicted. She should leave him be – punish him for his little outburst the way she had punished Thomas for his, with polite silence. But she didn't want to shut him out; if anything she was fighting to make Lucien open up to her and to trust the sanctity of this house once more. If she turned on him and pushed him away when he was at his most vulnerable, and if he took that as his final sign to take his daughter and run, then Jean would never forgive herself. Her pride gave way to her pity, and her shoulders lost some of their steel when she turned around to face him again.

"You have nothing to apologise for" she said. Lucien sighed and ran his hand down his face, wiping away the last evidence of his crying, though his eyes were still red and puffy.

"I'm sure I've been most unpleasant to be around" he said. He sounded contrite enough for Jean to believe his sincerity. In truth Lucien was rather lovely company, when he wasn't wallowing in morose self-pity. He was determined to remain on higher ground than his father, and any mention of the man put Lucien in a right foul state, but besides that he was – much to Jean's chagrin – delightful. Witty and deeply intelligent, kind and gentle in a way many men were not, Lucien was one out of the box, and while she pottered around the house during the day going about her chores between patients, Lucien was a keen help. Just as he had been over washing the dishes, he was determined to assist her as thanks for her hospitality, and Jean still wasn't sure how to make it plain to him that it should be the other way around.

She sensed in him a longing to be useful, and needed, and to prove his worth in practical ways. She felt a deep sadness over what he had lost, and saw in him a fear that he would lose what little he had left. Much of the day he observed Li in the garden, delighting in her carefree ability to read in the sun, and Jean had witnessed his turmoil. Lucien wanted so desperately to give his daughter the best chance he could, but with little resources and his own childhood grief to unpack he was floundering in normalcy. He was a soldier; he knew he could fight. He could take a beating and starvation and fight back against such injustice. But the cold shoulder of his father, and the mundanity of ordinary life; he wasn't sure if he could settle down into Ballarat again, and it scared him. Jean indulged him for that reason, because she could see it under the surface, as witnessed in so many of the men who came home from the war. But she also wondered just how long it would take for Lucien to simply sit still and _be_ , without being afraid of his own shadow. Without being afraid to ask for help.

Jean sighed, and stepped back towards him. "You don't have to do it all on your own, Lucien" she said gently. "It's just not possible"

And because he seemed to be listening, and because she rather thought they had developed a level of trust between them, Jean moved one step closer and placed her hand on his shoulder.

"It's okay to need people again"

A shudder ran through him that she felt up her arm, and he hung his head to hide a fresh wave of emotion that rolled across his face. Her words had struck a chord just as intended, and she didn't feel the need to say any more.

It was, she realised, the first time they had really touched. Other than their handshake in greeting, there had been no reason for it. Lucien was outwardly demonstrative with Li, forever hugging her and placing a hand on her shoulder in reassurance, and kissing her forehead at night when he tucked her into bed. But with everyone else he was taciturn and Jean understood that; she was not really the most affectionate person herself, except with her nearest and dearest.

The warmth of his skin under the thin cotton of his shirt was quite a revelation to her. He was a man - flesh and blood and bone, emitting heat and sweat, his body clean but still carrying that identifiable smell that was _Lucien_ \- and under her hand she felt a shock go through her at the realisation of his reality. Not a figment, or an apparition, but a person living alongside her. When his hand came up around himself to land on hers, anchoring her touch to him, she just about leapt out of her skin. Warm and calloused fingers, clammy palms, and the way his thumb stroked her wrist in barely-there passes, completely unaware that he was doing it, left a fire in its wake.

It occurred to her then just how sparse physical contact was between people; any people, even her most treasured friends. She would kiss their cheeks, sometimes embrace them goodbye, but they were fleeting touches of familiarity, and so often too brief and covered by layers, leaving no real lasting impact. Lucien placed his hand over hers and did not pull away, and Jean was hit at once with both a stark sense of bereavement and a deep longing to feel more. Not sexual, necessarily, or at least she wouldn't allow such a thought to entertain her mind while she stood in his room in the dead of night; but intimate certainly. The touch of bare skin on skin; the feel of hands on her back, or running over her neck just under her collar; standing near another person in bare feet. All the little intimacies that two people bred by living beside each other had been gone for a long time, and though she had lived in this house with a man for three years, their relationship was so defined by its boundaries and limitations that she never once set foot downstairs in anything less than her daily battle armour. She could count on one hand the number of times Thomas had seen her in her hair net for bed, and each time had felt startlingly awkward.

But Lucien was here now. He was older than her by a couple of years, and had a child younger than her own. He was handsome, and worldly, and had a kind and decent heart as well as his stoic pride. He was a man of contradictions, but the more she witnessed the more he made complete sense to her. And he did not shy away from her touch, instead protracting it with an answer of his own, throwing convention out the window in favour of a tangible human bond. It left her with a deep sense of longing that she did not understand and had not felt since those first few months after her husband left for war. A need for connection to another soul who understood her. It shocked her and frightened her in equal measure, and yet she couldn't pull away. Jean was drawn to him in ways she did not understand.

They stood that way for long and quiet minutes, Jean squeezing his shoulder now and then and Lucien's thumb stroking the skin of her wrist, the two like a call and answer of care and understanding. There was something sweet and forbidden about the hour, when the rest of the world was sleeping and it was just them. It was as though they were ensconced in a bubble all their own, sheltered from the real world and all the problems both past and present. They were content to get lost in it for a time, ignoring everything else, as fatigue and the hour slowly caught up to them once more.

Finally Jean started moving more purposefully, her hand coaxing Lucien from his reverie.

"Try and get some sleep, Lucien" she said, and then – reluctantly, missing his warmth even as she pulled away from it – she stepped back from him towards the door. His head rose up to watch her from the corner of his eye, a secretive look between them, and she nodded at him once.

"I will" he replied. "Thank you Jean"

She nodded once more, the timbre of his voice washing through her, and then she broke away from his gaze and turned back to the door, exiting as quietly and uneventfully as she arrived.


	8. Chapter 8

_**A/N:**_ _If you've come this far, thank you! And I promise it starts to get a little happier as we go along._

~0~

Jean was pulled from Lucien's side by the call of his father down the hallway. She was standing in the kitchen, having just dismissed Li from the breakfast table to go wash her face and hands in preparation for visiting town for the day. Lucien had made a wry comment – something about _she who must be obeyed_ – and Jean was just thinking up her snappy retort, her smirk firmly in place, when Thomas' voice called out from his room.

"Jean, would you mind coming here a moment?"

With a look to Lucien, one eyebrow raised, Jean deposited her tea towel on the table and walked briskly down the hall, hips swaying with the confidence of a woman having a good day.

"Yes Doctor?" she asked, rounding his doorway.

"I seem to have misplaced the blazer that goes with these pants" he said. He patted at his waist, clad in a soft cream cable knit cardigan, and then while he was searching about the room his hand came up and smoothed the back of his perfectly styled hair, patting down imaginary strands as though composing himself. It was sweet in a way – Thomas rarely asked for help with the mundane things and certainly didn't seek her out unnecessarily – but he looked so very lost that Jean took pity on him. She was still cross that he avoided half of breakfast in favour of finishing patient notes, but at the end of the day he was her employer, and he had been nothing but decent to her until now, so Jean stifled her growing wrath and answered his unspoken question.

"It's not misplaced, it's with me" she said, smiling a little to soften the blow of a tone just a bit too sharp. "I was mending the sleeves, remember?"

He looked up through his round glasses and nodded.

"Ah yes. Right you are" he said. And then he stood still for a moment with his mouth agape like a stunned mullet.

"Well I suppose I shall just go without" he added rather awkwardly. Jean remained where she was in the doorway and cast her eye about the room. There was another jumper on the back of the chair in the corner, and a pair of slacks hung over the open wardrobe door, and Jean's brow furrowed as she imagined Thomas Blake spending an inordinate amount of time this morning sorting out exactly what regalia he was arming himself with before exiting the room. It wasn't a thought that brought her comfort, in fact, if anything it made her rather sad. Thomas was a proud man, yes, but Jean had always seen him as stalwart as well; immovable and constant. That was, after all, the reason his son had returned to him, because he knew what to expect. Thomas was as fixed in the landscape as Lake Wendouree – sometimes low water and riddled with drought, yes, but always there and cherished for his unchanging nature. But now the façade was cracking with each passing day his son was home and Jean worried just what would be left when the impending conclusion to their argument finally broke free.

From somewhere else in the house Jean could hear the rumbling of Lucien's voice, booming through the downstairs bathroom with Li, no doubt roughhousing her in great love and making peels of giggles burst forth like sunlight through the clouds. He must have got sick of waiting at the kitchen table by himself, and instead sought out his daughter and her endless energy to ready himself for the day.

Thomas' eyes drifted to the doorway just over Jean's shoulder, his gaze wistful and mournful. There was so much happening just beyond his grasp, and he had no idea how to reach for it and hold it tight the way he so obviously wanted to do. He had lost a lot in his life, she knew. Perhaps some of it was of his own making, but it didn't lessen the loss, and she tried to remind herself of that and not take sides too badly in Lucien's favour.

"They are heading into town today, if you'd like to join them" she said, picking up the discarded jumper from the back of the chair to feign nonchalance. She heard rather than saw Thomas' scoff at the suggestion.

"I don't need anything from town" he said. But she could hear what he meant; that he wouldn't be welcomed even if he did ask. Jean thought it terribly uncharitable of him to assume Lucien would spurn him, though of course it was just as likely as not. But Thomas had got it in his mind that any interaction with his son was destined to end badly, and so avoided it altogether.

Jean stepped forward to collect the pants hung at the wardrobe, her anger once more surfacing at his easy dismissal of such a simple olive branch. She folded the jumper back into the tallboy and then she folded the pants neatly over a hanger to put back, and didn't even try to hide the jerkiness of her movements as she thrust them into the wardrobe and flicked them flat so as not to crease. Without thinking – without giving any deference to his position or their relationship – Jean voiced the only thought that kept swimming in her mind every time she looked at Thomas' churlish attitude and lack of gratitude.

"Do you have any idea what I would give to have my Christopher back?" she asked, her gaze fixed firmly on the clothes in the wardrobe.

Behind her there was stillness for a moment, and she felt glad to have shocked him. A ripple of righteousness ran through her at the mental image of his stunned face, though she still didn't turn around to see it for herself. Almost as quickly she felt guilty for using Christopher's memory that way, and she silently asked for his forgiveness.

"It's not the same" said Thomas gently. Jean spun around to look at him, her eyes fiery.

"No, it's not" she said. "You actually have a chance to-"

She cut herself short but they both knew what she was going to say. _A chance to apologise._ A lump formed in Jean's throat, comprised of all the words she would say to Christopher if he ever got to walk back through her open door after all these years. All the forgiveness she would seek from him as she held him close and promised to never let him go and never be discontented with their lot again. All the love she would show him for the devotion he had showed her. All the ways she would tell him that he was her whole world, and their family was everything she ever needed. But Christopher would never come home the way Lucien Blake had. Jean had her husband's medals and his dog tags and the death certificate from the Army to prove it. She marched in the parades in his memory and had to live with her guilt over their argument every day, and perhaps that was the real reason she was so mad at Thomas for his behaviour; because he squandered that which she could only dream of. The magnitude of what she had lost hit Jean anew like a bolt of lightning hitting the earth and tears filled her eyes so suddenly that Thomas saw them. She let him believe she was weeping for him and his son; she did not divulge the deepest parts of her heart that she locked carefully away, the guilt she couldn't let go of no matter how often her priest told her it wasn't her fault.

"A chance to talk to him" she finished, and ignored the softening of Thomas' eyes.

They looked at each other for a long moment, Jean waiting to see if his hackles would rise or if he would hear her point – concede her ground – and take to heart what she was imploring. After a few long heartbeats he seemed to lose some fight and Jean was glad for it; Lucien was as stubborn as his father and far more volatile. She shuddered to think what the outcome would be if it was up to him to make the first move. No, the stalemate had to be broken by Thomas, or it would not be broken at all. If she could only get him to see that there needn't _be_ any war. Lucien was here – he had travelled the world to come this far and deliver himself and Li safely into his father's arms. Thomas only had to take one miniscule step forward to bridge the gap. In Jean's estimation it was not up to Lucien to make it any easier for him; he had done enough thus far.

"He's doing his best" she said.

For reasons she didn't understand the words brought tears to Thomas' eyes, and his gaze flicked to the door with such longing that Jean could feel his heart reaching for his family. She wanted to shake him and yell at him to get his act together, but it was no good. Whether he chose to step forward would be his decision and his alone. And instead Thomas only sighed and looked at her again, a sad smile on his face.

"We all are" he said.

Thomas walked to the door, brushing past Jean on his way, and she nearly jumped out of her skin when he placed his hand on her shoulder just briefly, like a conciliatory pat. But he didn't walk down the hall towards where Lucien's voice was mingling with Li's, the two of them sing-songing together in such a practiced way. Instead Thomas continued across the hall and into the clinic to sit at his desk and continue his notes on experiments that he invented to pass the time.

Jean watched him go, anger turning into resignation, and she turned her eyes heavenward before she walked out of the room and back to the kitchen. _You sure are testing me, aren't you?_ she thought, and she wasn't sure if she was asking God or her husband. Jean imagined Christopher smirking in delight at her frustration, the way he used to smirk when the boys would come in from the yard all mucky on her floors and she'd get cross at the lot of them. It brought a smile to her face to imagine him watching down from heaven, laughing at Jean's stubborn efforts to mend this family. He would have poked fun at her and called her pigheaded and told her she was being silly, though of course he fell in love with her for the same reasons.

But Jean was determined, and it put a spring in her step as she shook off her mood and ushered herself into the bathroom to ask Lucien, if it's not too much trouble, might she join them in town on her errands.

~0~

It was very late that night, and Li was asleep across the length of the couch, her head on her father's leg, his hand softly running over her hair to sooth away the excitement of the day.

It was marvellous to go into town together. The three of them attended the post office, and then the bank to secure Lucien's new savings account and deposit the clinic cheques. They stopped by the windows of dress shops and cigarette vendors, just to watch Li's face light up at the delights found inside. And Li's eyes just about fell out of her head when, spur of the moment, Jean offered to buy them all a single ice cream cone from the place that made excellent milkshakes. She never usually indulged and it was worth it to learn that Lucien liked mint-choc-chip. They walked leisurely down the street with nowhere specific to be while they licked the cones in the warmth of almost-summer sun, and it was like they had not a care in the world. Not even curious stares from passers-by at the _strange-looking child_ could break them from the spell. Li had been too young to remember Singapore before the war, and hadn't explored much of Melbourne in transit, so this was the first opportunity for her to truly get a sense of her new home country. And though she clutched Lucien's hand tightly in her own and said very little, Jean watched the way she soaked up the world like a sponge in a bucket – full to bursting and yet still so much around her to take in.

Lucien had been deferential to Jean the whole day and it gave them both a chance to really obverse one another. He had intended to seek out jobs at medical clinics or even the hospital, but given their company he put that off another day in favour of spending it in peace. He watched with curiosity as Jean greeted each person by name, stopped and chatted with one or two at the green grocer or the butcher, and added her own pieces of commentary to him under her breath when she saw fit. He carried half her bags for her, doing the gentlemanly thing, and she didn't fight him on it, happy to have the help. Every stop took twice as long as Jean got embroiled in one conversation or another, introducing Lucien only briefly to avoid him having to talk to very many strangers, and it amused Lucien to no end to see a woman normally so circumspect at home light up while in public company. It seemed that Jean Beazley knew just about everyone in town, or they knew her, and Lucien was starting to get the sense that aside from being an excellent housekeeper and a gentle shoulder to lean on, she was also a pillar of her community. It only raised his esteem for her, and his curiosity about her.

They were becoming close, he thought. Trusted at the very least, though there were many moments when they rubbed each other the wrong way. It had been so long since he lived alongside another person that Lucien forgot all the small and insignificant ways he could offend another without meaning to; and Jean, for all her understanding and patience, was a surprisingly feisty personality. More than once his observations of present-day Ballarat were met with a passive-aggressive retort that broke him from his own thoughts, and though she didn't stay offended for long, she made sure that he knew when she was put out. It took him aback many times, and Lucien knew without a doubt that he had only scratched the surface of her reality. Their brief intimate encounters had always been tempered by a late hour or an emotional upheaval, but exploring around town was a different beast entirely. Jean walked with her head held high and a determination in her step. She struck him as a woman forged in fire – the loss of her husband and the distance of her sons wounded her, and living in his father's house tested her pride, but still she met everyone's gaze firmly and practically dared them to say one bad thing about her company.

She was quite formidable, and Lucien could see right through her.

He had spent enough time around soldiers to recognise someone faking it until the world believed it too. He felt like an imposter himself most days, barely holding on for the sake of Li, and even then he was a wreck of the man he'd once been. Maybe that made them kindred spirits, but Lucien saw through Jean's bluster with a practiced eye and admired how well she had fooled the world into thinking she was okay when really, he knew, she was weighed down like Atlas and living carefully to avoid it all collapsing.

But he didn't question her on it. If this was the front she chose to show to survive, far be it for him to second guess her methods. His own were too varied and damaged to go throwing stones from his glass house.

All in all, their day had been quite splendid, and punctuated by a beautiful clear sky that only bolstered them up and carried with it such promise of more to come.

And now it was late in the evening, and Lucien was sitting with a glass of scotch in hand and the record player down low. Jean had disappeared somewhere with a cursory comment, and it gave Lucien a chance to look around the room at take stock. Some things hadn't changed – a few of the pictures, and a piece of furniture or two. The room was arranged differently, which he attributed to time and Jean's firm hand. There were flowers in vases and books on the shelves, including the small collection Li had taken to with vigour. There were more modern records than he remembered; Lucien wondered if it was Jean or his father who bought them. This house had been his home once, many years ago. The longer he stayed, the more he could see it becoming so again.

If only he could get over one very significant hurdle.

Lucien was pulled from his quiet contemplation by Jean's return. She reappeared behind him, her hand gently caressing his shoulder to get his attention, and he looked up and over his shoulder to watch her round the couch to stand before him.

In her hand were a stack of letters tied together with a piece of twine, and almost immediately Lucien recognised them.

"I found these once, under his bed" said Jean, holding them out to him. "He told me to pack them up in the studio. I hope I'm not being too presumptuous"

Lucien took the letters without a word, his mouth slightly agape in shock. Turning them to read the front he saw the familiar slant of his father's writing, addressing the top envelop to Lucien's old address in Singapore. In messier writing over that was Lucien's own hand saying _return to sender_. The letter, he knew, had never been opened. Thumbing to the next one underneath he could see another of the same fashion, from a later date, and behind that was one that arrived to Hong Kong after the war, where Lucien was briefly based while looking for Li. He shuddered to think how his father found out his whereabouts from the Army, but it was written in black and white that Thomas had done so all the same. That one was returned with an unfamiliar hand stating _not at this address_ , and Lucien wondered what the margin of error was; he'd been in Hong Kong so briefly, how close had he been to receiving the letter? By how long had Thomas' word missed him? Would he have opened it if he'd received it?

The pile of letters was relatively small, only a half-dozen correspondence telling the story of their estrangement so plainly that Lucien's eyes teared up. He rested them on the leg not occupied by Li's head, running his hand over them reverently. He looked down to Li, her face relaxed in sleep, and couldn't help but reflect on how far they had come. She had such a delightful day; she was so happy here, and settling in quickly. So much had happened since Lucien was last in Ballarat, fighting with his father over his engagement to Mei Lin, that it felt a world away.

Lucien looked up and watched Jean as she collected her sherry glass and quietly settled into the armchair on the other side. She was giving him a minute to acknowledge her gift to him – if he even saw it as a gift. She must truly be sick of playing intermediary if she was fishing out old mementos, but Lucien could see what she was really doing; he wasn't a fool. He knew his father's stubbornness and his own anger were both wearing her down, even if he was incapable of tempering it. He knew he was quite impossible to live with, happy and eager one minute, a depressed drunk the next. Jean was doing what she could without overstepping. Lucien had no doubt – after all their conversation around town that day – that she had her own basket of opinions of the Blake men and their history, and most of them would probably be correct. But Jean was also a deferential woman who was careful not to overstep her bounds, and so by giving Lucien the letters she was only passing on Thomas' words rather than quoting her own. She didn't know what was in them any more than Lucien did, but they could only give him more information to make up his own mind, like a scientist collecting data. The more data he had the better he could work, good, bad or otherwise.

She must have known that too.

"You're a remarkable woman, Missus Beazley" said Lucien softly, his eyes piercing her.

She looked at him and met his gaze, letting the intensity of him linger for just one heartbeat before she gave him a self-deprecating smile.

"Well. I don't know about that" she said, cocking one eyebrow and taking a sip of her sherry.

"I do"

His eyes never left hers, his wonder at her evident and unashamed. She tried to demure under that look but it was no use; Lucien didn't give much deference to the way most people behaved and he was unlikely to let her off the hook so easily. He wanted her to see – wanted her to know the depth of his regard and gratitude to her. She had done so much for him and his daughter and he couldn't repay her for those kindnesses; this one went far beyond what anyone would expect and he was still floored by her. Perhaps the letters would cause more pain with nasty words, or they may provide the exact answers he was looking for, but either way Jean had forced Thomas to reach out by revisiting words he wrote long ago. She couldn't make the flesh-and-blood man stand before his son and make amends but she could make damned sure his past words were heard. At this point there was little left to lose and she hoped, after spending one perfect day in Ballarat, that Lucien wouldn't take it as his cue to leave. She hoped that he would read the letters and, regardless of what they said, he would see it was reason to stay.

There was still so much left to say, it couldn't possibly be contained in a few meagre letters. There was so much for him here.

"Perhaps they will give you some answers" she said, and didn't look away from Lucien as she sent up a silent prayer; _let them be just the beginning_.


	9. Chapter 9

_**A/N:**_ _Sorry for the delay, life is very busy at the moment, but there is more to come as promised. Content warning for brief mentions of Jean's miscarriage._

~0~

The next morning was much like any other at this time of year. The first day of December promised so many things; summer, and Christmas time, and a spirit of family everywhere in town. Most other years it brought a longing to Jean's heart, the loss of Christopher and the estrangement of Jack made stark in the face of other people enjoying the holiday season. And this year she fully expected that feeling to grow tenfold now that Christopher Junior was sequestered away at Duntroon and she was left alone in this house with only her thoughts and ghosts for company.

But the presence of Lucien and Li broke those expectations quite spectacularly, and Jean looked forward to this Christmas with a feeling of trepidation and anticipation. She was eager to teach Li the traditions that would hold her steady in her new life in Australia. Only a week ago she was preparing for loneliness but now Jean couldn't be sure what she was preparing for, and though it was terrifying it was also exhilarating.

The two newcomers were not yet awake, although Jean also couldn't be sure Lucien wasn't avoid her. She had bid him goodnight without seeing if he would open the letters, and part of her still worried that she had grossly misjudged that deed. It was an act of desperation; Thomas seemed so unable to speak to his son, and Lucien was barely getting by with just looking after Li that he couldn't turn his mind to initiating conversation, knowing it had the potential to turn so damaging so quickly. They danced around each other in this too-big house, pretending like the other didn't exist even as they both knew they would have to seriously talk at some point. Jean wanted more days like yesterday – all of them seeing to their duties with a languidness that let joy filter in through the seams. She wanted to show Li more of Ballarat, and maybe eventually the wider world, without being afraid of returning to find the house a murder scene. She wanted Lucien to feel peace here for perhaps the first time in his life, and to feel confident enough to secure gainful employment and start taking the mantle as heir-apparent to the Blake name. She wanted Thomas to eventually ease into a happy retirement surrounded by his family.

Jean wanted so many things for these people she considered her own. Maybe she wasn't allowed to feel that way – did other housekeepers take such an interest in the households they tended, she wondered – but she couldn't stop herself. Without her sons close by these people were the only outlet for all her caretaker instincts and soft dreams.

Her quiet contemplation was broken by a quiet cry and a hard thump down the hall.

Jean stopped her movements, abandoning her attempts to light the stove and make tea, and furrowed her brow as she listened a little harder. A moment later there was a loud crash like glass shattering on the floor, and in an instant she walked briskly down the hall towards the front rooms, her dressing gown billowing behind her.

"Doctor?" she called, her voice firm and loud, and quite concerned.

There was a noise from inside his bedroom – a moan, or maybe her name – and without knocking or hesitating she pushed open the door to investigate.

Inside, Thomas was crumpled on the floor dressed only in his nighty, the glass from his bedside table in pieces by his hand. He was sweating and completely out of breath, his right hand pressing on his left breast as though to usher away pain. His face was scrunched up but he was conscious, and she thanked God for small mercies. Most ridiculously of all, his feet were encased in his customary slippers which lived just next to his bed for when he rolled out of a morning; his robe, however, was untouched on the chair nearby. The sight was – to Jean's confused and addled brain – completely absurd. She had never seen Thomas in anything less than his dressing gown and even then only a handful of times.

She took barely a moment to see the scene in front of her before panic set in.

"Lucien" she screamed, and ran to Thomas' side. "Lucien help, Lucien come quickly"

From above her she could hear loping footsteps move quickly across the boards and down the staircase – he must have already been up and about to react so fast to her cries – and she breathed a sigh of relief to know she wasn't alone in the house.

"It's okay, we'll get help, just hold on" she said to Thomas, taking his hand and stalling for time. "Lucien" she called again, so he would know what room to find them in.

A moment later Lucien came around the doorway, a soft _Jean_ on his lips at the sight of her kneeling by his collapsed father's side. She worried for just a brief moment that he would be affected by panic like herself – that memories of the war or some other ailment would send him careening from the room and she would be left to fend for herself. But she needn't have any concern, for he had been a combat doctor in the worst of times, and kept his qualifications current in the years since, and though his nights were plagued by terrors his work was not. Stillness and tension made him antsy, but in the face of a crisis he was well within his element.

In an instant he was by her side, taking over the scene.

"Jean" he said, voice calm but swift. "Go and telephone for an ambulance, quickly now. It's alright, dad, it's alright"

She stood and bolted from the room to the medical reception to do as he asked. Behind her she heard Thomas trying to speak through a clenched jaw; _my heart,_ he said, but couldn't manage more. The call to the hospital was brief and methodical – Lucien yelled out a pulse rate for her to relay to them, but they merely told her the ambulance was on the way and didn't ask for more detail before hanging up. She wondered if that was normal; if they ordinarily left people to their own devices while on emergency calls, or was it different this time because they knew the patient was with a fellow doctor? In any case she finished the call as quickly as it started and went back to assist Lucien.

Movement in the hallway caught her attention and Jean looked towards the stairwell to find Li watching around the corner. She was obviously afraid, still in her bedclothes, but she was still and quiet.

"Li, sweetheart, don't come over here, okay?"

"Keep her away, Jean" called Lucien from the room. Her eyes darted to him and saw the way he had moved his father to his back, checking him over and searching the bedside table.

"You stay right there for me, okay?" she said to Li. "Can you be a brave girl and stay there?"

Li nodded, her eyes wide and her face pale, but she didn't move any closer and she didn't start crying, so Jean left her alone for the moment.

"Jean, I need aspirin, water and a tea-towel" said Lucien, his eyes catching hers. The shattered glass on the floor told a poignant story. Jean whisked back down the hall to the kitchen, collecting Li along the way, and sat the girl at the kitchen table while she gathered a clean glass and filled it with still-cool water from the kettle.

"I need you to be really brave and stay here at the table" said Jean to Li, catching her eye. "It's all going to be alright, but I need you to do that for me"

"Okay" she whispered. Later Jean would see to the girl, make sure that she was unaffected or help her if she was troubled, but right now there were more important things, and all that mattered was Li was compliant and safe, and out of harm's way. Jean collected a tea towel from the bottom kitchen draw. She dropped a firm, warm kiss to the crown of Li's head, and then swept out of the room and back to help Lucien with her tools in hand. On her way into the room she moved to the nightstand where a small collection of jars sat, and picked up the one containing white round pills. She brought all of her paraphernalia over to Lucien's outstretched hand, first giving him the tea towel and water glass, and then sat back and watched in awe as he got to work, one hand firmly holding Thomas' though she barely registered it.

First he dipped the corner of the tea towel into the water and placed it at his father's mouth for him to suck on. Thomas' face was sweaty but his mouth was bone dry from all his heavy breathing. His eyes were darting around frantic and afraid, but they locked onto his son with a desperation that made Jean's own heart constrict with pain for him. Belatedly she realised Lucien was making sure there was enough moisture in his father's mouth for the aspirin to dissolve, rather than provide him any real comfort or quench his thirst. She remembered being denied a glass of water herself once – something about blood volume, the explanation hazy in the memory of so much pain – and just as quickly as he gave it, Lucien took the towel away and used the dry end to mop Thomas' brow.

Next she handed over one pill from the jar, wordlessly anticipating what he may need.

"He usually takes half of one each morning" she said in explanation. Lucien nodded. Thomas attempted to say something which sounded like _blood pressure_ , but his words were becoming slurred as he fought to remain conscious, and Lucien shushed him kindly in understanding. Thomas just nodded, his eyes blinking long and slow. He must know, thought Jean; he must know exactly what is happening. She wasn't sure if that was better or worse.

"Okay dad, chew one for me" said Lucien. And then he placed one of the pills in his father's mouth and held his jaw lightly to feel the crunch of the pill being ground in his teeth. Thomas' tongue moved the dust around his mouth, directing some under his tongue to be delivered more effectively.

For a moment Jean left her body and watched the scene unfold from somewhere just behind herself. There was a calmness to both men that astounded her. The need to freeze or to scream or to run away pushed against her sternum and made her jittery, but neither man seemed to feel the same way. Even under distress Thomas was lucid enough to follow directions, and Lucien; Lucien was a genuine marvel. Calm and methodical, he worked the way she imagined surgeons always did – completely unflappable, needing her to do her duties without fuss so he could carry on saving a life. He was unfazed by his father's torment, and composed in the face of worry; he saw to Thomas and ensured Li's safety and relayed his needs to Jean all without batting an eye, as though his mind was split evenly three ways.

She understood so much about him in that moment. She saw the war doctor in him – a man who had faced situations too terrible to name; far more harrowing than this – and she imagined him on the battlefront or in a field hospital tending to wounded soldiers and watching them die and still retaining enough of his humanity to want to find his family and keep his daughter safe. She pictured him in surgery with his doctor's gown on, talking to nurses the way he spoke to Jean now, and then leaving behind his end results whether they were good or bad, to take tea at home and read bedtime stories. She understood in that instant how he managed to box away all his suffering and pain and grief to make sure Li smiled or offer Jean a kind word, and part of her adored him for it. In that moment she would face a thousand crises so long as she had Lucien Blake at her shoulder as sword and shield, guiding her way, and it was a feeling that melted away some of her jitters, which terrified and exhilarated her in equal measure.

She wondered, as she watched Thomas grasp for his son's hand and listen to the approaching ambulance siren, if his father was seeing the same in him. She wondered if it would make a difference at all.

It was a flurry of activity when the medics arrived at the house. Lucien answered the door and directed them with efficiency, demanding to come with them to the hospital. Jean only realised when he stood up that he was already in a linen shirt and slacks, loafers on his feet; she briefly considered if he always dressed for the day so soon after waking and then hated herself for even contemplating it.

"Jean" he said, his hand on her arm breaking her reverie. "Can I ask you to stay here with Li?"

She met his gaze and it cut through the fog of the last short while. He was a little wild around the edges, but his eyes were clear and his voice firm. This was Lucien's element, and she trusted him.

"We will wait for your call" she replied, and squared her shoulders as she took strength from him, gathered her courage and met his gaze with one of her own. If he could be brave, then so could she. She had faced worse than this, and she had been far more scared and alone. She remembered the car ride to the hospital the first time, Christopher insisting she be seen to even though there was nothing to be done for it. She remembered the time Jack fell from the chicken coop roof and took minutes to wake up again, his tiny body groggy in her arms as she took the old truck into town by herself, Christopher Junior silent in the back seat. She remembered delivering both her sons alone in her bed, their farm never having enough money to install a telephone line, and though her husband had made it in time to catch at least his oldest son in his hands it was Jean who got them both safely to that point.

She had faced so many of these frights alone and with no warning, and she knew that if it had been just her and the doctor with no Lucien to help, she would have done so again. A little slower, perhaps, and maybe not nearly as efficient, but she would have found a way by hook or by crook.

The fact she didn't have to brought tears to her eyes far more readily than the situation itself.

Lucien nodded at her in thanks, his hand squeezing her arm in gratitude, and then he spun on his heel and following the ambulance officers into the vehicle and away to the hospital.

The silence after the front door closed left a ringing in Jean's ears.

After a brief moment to gather herself she turned and walked back to the kitchen to fetch Li, not wanting to leave the girl alone any longer than necessary. She was still seated at the kitchen table. Her face was pale and fraught with worry and her legs swung underneath herself with anticipation. Her eyes were already trained on the door when Jean rounded it and came to sit beside her, smoothing down her hair in comfort.

"What happened?" she asked. She hadn't witnessed a thing with her own eyes, and for that Jean was grateful. "Where's Papa?"

"He had to take your Grandfather to the hospital because he's a little bit sick" said Jean gently. "He'll call us soon"

"Are we going to go there?"

"We're going to wait to hear from your father" answered Jean, and she drew herself up from her core in order to find the strength Li and Lucien would need from her. There was little to be done in the intervening time between Lucien walking out the door and him calling home again. "Until then, my girl, I will make you some toast, and then you'll wash your face, brush your teeth, and choose which of your lovely new dresses from yesterday you'd like to put on"

Jean was certain, if she only kept up the pretence that everything was okay – that Thomas had merely taken a tumble or hurt his foot or some other mundane complaint that a child might conjure up – then inevitably it would work out. God could not be so cruel, she thought, and then remembered the punishments He had doled out for her own transgressions not so very long ago, each one more terrible than the last. _Not this time, I beg of you_ , she prayed, as she set the kettle to boil. So much had happened since she first went to light the stove that morning that it was almost comical. So much was still yet to happen, even if Thomas was given a clean bill of health after all this.

Mostly Jean just tried to distract herself from the memory of his terrified face as the medics lifted the gurney and hiked him through the door. She hoped beyond belief that it would not be her last memory of him alive. There were already far too many ghosts roaming these halls.


	10. Chapter 10

_**A/N:**_ _I am not a doctor and this is not a medical story, so I'm going to try and avoid as much of it as possible while still bringing you guys a good yarn. Thanks for sticking with it!_

~0~

There was little to be done for Thomas once they got him settled in a hospital bed, and Lucien was just about beside himself feeling useless. A broken leg could be set straight, a bullet wound cleaned and stitched closed, but it seemed that for all his clever skills and varied experiences there was little to be done for a broken heart.

Whispers were starting in the medical world about surgery that would unblock the arteries, but even if Lucien was brave enough to attempt such a thing – which, he realised with great pain, he was not – the treatments were experimental at best and not yet on the radar of a small country hospital in Victoria. A part of him couldn't let his own father be a test subject anyway, even if it meant saving him, and so he worked with the attending physicians to get his father more aspirin and make him as comfortable as possible while they waited to see if a secondary attack would finish him off.

Lucien called Jean at home as promised. He asked her to stay away. He hoped to find a way to repay her for looking after Li for him and wished he could join them at home and not be at the hospital at all. But she agreed to keep Li occupied while they all waited for Thomas to recover, and for that he was beside himself with gratitude.

His father slept. So long and so deep that Lucien poked him occasionally just to watch him snuffle and prove he was still capable of consciousness. They wouldn't know until the following day if he was out of the woods just yet, and once they did he would need to walk around to keep the remainder of his heart tissues working and healthy. But after the flurry of initial activity Thomas mostly slept.

"Still avoiding me, dad" said Lucien to his relaxed face. But there was no bite in it, only chilling relief that he could bait the old man at all. And then, when the nurse left for the change of shift and the ward quieted for the evening; when Thomas was deep in restful sleep and the lights were all low in the hall; then Lucien allowed himself to feel the weight of the day, and he wept long and hard for what might have been. Everything about the day shook him to his core – the reminder of his father's mortality, his last surviving parent; Li's need to have a family, and Lucien's need for the same, though he would never frame it the same way; Lucien's ability as a doctor called into question and yet he was rendered hopeless in the face of a common and deadly ailment. Sitting in the chair by his father's bedside, Lucien placed his hand over his mouth as tears flowed freely for the events of the day and he was loath to stop them. This was normal, he knew. This was the let-down of adrenaline that followed a stressful event; the reaction he was allowed to have here, in Ballarat, in safety and warmth. This was the relief of a son who still –despite everything between them – needed his father.

Lucien didn't hear the door open until a gentle hand rested on his shoulder, and he jolted and looked up to the face of the night nurse, a young women with deep brown eyes that seemed to understand.

"Go home, Doctor Blake" she said gently. "We'll call you if anything changes. But go home and sleep tonight"

A part of him protested against it – he was a doctor and he had a duty of care; he was a son and this was his father – but he knew she was right. Thomas had stabilised over the course of the day, and the longer he rested the less likely it seemed he would have a second attack. And even if he did, the men and women of the hospital were just as equipped to deal with it, certainly better than Lucien himself with his exhaustion and worry. He wouldn't be of any use being strung out and irritable tomorrow from lack of sleep. Better to go home and try to rest in his own bed – make sure Li was okay and thank Jean for the umpteenth time, and just generally hope for the best.

None of which made rising from the chair and saying goodbye any easier.

He stood by his father's bedside and watched him sleep for a moment. His face was slack in a way that looked exhausted and not at all peaceful – bottom jaw hanging slightly open and slouched to one side so that a droplet of drool sat on his lip about to fall. He was propped up on pillows that seemed to engulf him from the shoulders up and made him look very small. He looked every bit his age and then some; with a start Lucien realised he looked like an old man. Gone was the giant that stood above him and ushered him onto the taxi bound for Melbourne without so much as a hug. Gone was the brute who demanded Lucien abandon his foreign love and return to Australia. Gone was the dour gentleman who sat around corners and in shadows steadfastly ignoring his son and granddaughter.

In his place was a frail old man, so wrapped in his pride and his fear. So close to death today that it rattled the foundations beneath all of them.

"Don't you go anywhere, dad" whispered Lucien softly. "We still have a lot to talk about"

Lucien would be furious at his father if he didn't obey. With a final squeeze of his hand where it rested on the sheets, Lucien turned and walked out of the room, determined not to look back, just in case.

~0~

He met Jean in the kitchen, where her worried eyes tried to give him a smile. It was late enough that she had retired into her pink fluffy gown with her hair net on, and was fussing by the sink putting away dishes that had been left to air dry. No doubt she had called the hospital more than once to get an update, but she hadn't asked the nurse to pull him from his father's side, and for that he was in her debt.

"Li went down fine" she said, getting right to the point, her eyes searching him. "Though she was very quiet all day"

He nodded at her. He didn't have the energy or the heart to pick apart his daughter's own demons brought forth by the ruckus. She must have been terrified, and so conditioned to obey and to carry on without fuss that Lucien hadn't thought that it wasn't a good thing. Jean had dragged her off to the kitchen and spent the day with her, and the weight of guilt crushed him as he wondered what she must have thought. So young and already having lost so much – endured so much; he felt he had failed her, and yet Jean's words echoed in his ear. _You can't do it all yourself_ , she had said, and today he knew he made the right choice. The doctor saw to his patient, and the father left his child in hands he knew were more than capable. It was a compromise he made without a second thought, and one he would do again in a heartbeat, no matter the repercussions that may rear their ugly head later.

"I will see to her in the morning" said Lucien to Jean, a quiet acknowledgement that he was too bone tired to deal with it that moment. Jean only nodded once.

"Tea?" she offered. Her voice was whisper soft, lacking any of the bite he had come to expect in her. Her kindness nearly caused the last of his resolve to shatter.

"No" said Lucien, fighting tears. "No, I think I will turn in for the night"

"Very well" she said, and didn't seem at all surprised. "If you need anything…"

He smiled at her – a very gentle and genuine smile, one that butted against all the prickliness he wanted to feel, and one that had shone through to her more than once on their walk through Ballarat just the previous day. It was a peaceful smile; Lucien felt warmth when it happened, radiating from his sternum like the feeling of coming home.

"I know where to find you" he said, still holding that smile, and Jean turned almost bashful under his gaze.

She nodded at him once again. "Well. Goodnight then"

She turned around to start preparing the kettle for her own cup of tea, and Lucien lingered for just a moment to consider her. He didn't think, at the time, that she would be very affected, but it suddenly struck Lucien just how much Jean had to lose if his father hadn't made it to the hospital, and how much she still stood to lose if the unthinkable happened. This was her home; watching her in the kitchen was evidence of that, as it was obviously her room and nobody else's. In the sunroom there were endless pots of flowers taking bloom, and even the garden was starting to take some shape, a bright orange thing next to the window that was never there before.

Jean's knitting sat in the living room and the fruit of her labour in the house could be felt all around; if Lucien looked for them, he would find her handwriting on the patient files stacked neatly in the cabinet, and the upstairs rooms had been carefully prepared for new people to arrive. She was everywhere here, and he wondered why it took him such a painful day to notice.

Yet she had not asked after Thomas. She knew the answers, of course, because she no doubt kept abreast of the situation over the phone, but she did not burden Lucien with her worries. Instead she asked after him, and offered tea and a friendly shoulder; reassured him that Li was well and that this house, at the very least, would still be standing in the morning. She gave all of that so selflessly that Lucien was rendered near speechless, this time not in gratitude but in awe. Wherever his father found such a remarkable woman as Jean Beazley, Lucien could only be grateful for it.

"Goodnight, Jean" Lucien muttered in answer to her, and then turned and left the kitchen and took himself upstairs before the magnitude of her kindness finally caused his tears to fall.

~0~

In his room Lucien was overcome with a feeling of helplessness. He was so tired, mentally and physically working to make sure his father was okay, and yet his mind buzzed with a nervous energy that made the very thought of sleep untenable. Li was in the single room – fondly thought of as her room now, and the idea that he would be staying for a long time to come, that Li would make a home here, was not as terrifying as it once was – and so Lucien's room was left all to himself.

He couldn't sleep, and he didn't want to face Jean downstairs by going to get a cup of tea or a snack to calm his nerves. But there was one demon he knew he could face here, and one task that he knew he should complete while he had the chance, and so he walked over to his bed and sat on the edge, fishing from underneath it the old tin box that housed his few meagre memories. On the top was the parcel Jean had placed so gently in his hands just last night and Lucien held the letters with a reverence he hadn't shown them before.

They seemed so inconsequential now; so small in the grand scheme of things. And yet his father may have died today, and there would have been nothing left of him save these meagre few words written years ago. Lucien was terrified of what they would contain, and hadn't the courage to open them the night before after such a perfect day with Jean and Li. But now Thomas lay in a hospital bed after cheating death once, and only time would tell if he would do so again any time soon; now seemed as good a moment as any to face his fear head on.

Silently Lucien pulled at the string holding them all together, and watched as they fell onto his lap, the oldest letter on top. He unfurled it, skimmed it to skip the pleasantries and get a feel for when this must have been written, and then focussed on a paragraph half way down on the first page.

 _This house is rather large with just me here. I think I may need to bring on a boarder or two to fill the rooms. Perhaps I will even consider a live-in housekeeper, though I doubt Mrs Keeley would accept the offer._

Mrs Keeley was the housekeeper for most of the years Lucien was living in Singapore, a sour old Irish woman with as many grandchildren as teeth, so this letter must have been sent right after their fight in a bid to rebuild rapport.

 _I will leave yours free, of course, but there is too much space here for just one man, it seems wasteful not to use it. Perhaps when you next visit we can discuss it together._

It was a strange thing for his father to write, but Lucien was no fool; he could read between the lines. The polite interest, the casual invitation home, the attempt to draw Lucien back into the fold like it was a place he had always belonged. Like he wasn't a lost young soul on the other side of the world making a life for himself that decidedly did not include his father. Lucien had been independent since he was a child, a fact he used to pride himself on and make jokes about; a past that shaped him into the doctor and the soldier and the world traveller.

But when he looked at Li his rage came back, and he wondered what he would think if she so prided herself on being that independent of him. Lucien had gone to great lengths to reclaim Li's childhood for her after her years in the orphanage. That had been a cruel and difficult place, void of any warmth, and it could so easily have come to pass that she wound up like Lucien; young and alone on the other side of the world, without her parents and fiercely determined to survive.

He looked at Li and couldn't fathom how he could put her in a cab and send her off to even Ballan for a day let alone Melbourne for a full school term. And to have his father invite him back after all the awful things they said to each other the last time was a kick in the stomach he wasn't expecting. _The house was empty because you banished me from it_ , thought Lucien, and didn't notice he had curled the letter into his clenched fist until it tore on one edge.

Flattening it out again to preserve it for now, Lucien put that letter aside. It wouldn't tell him anything of importance, and indeed felt more like a sorry attempt to mend bridges long burned. Instead he picked through the pile to the next letter, uncertain if he would be strong enough to read them all tonight. The intense need to honour his father's words was being replaced by the old memories of anger and resentment, and in the wake of such tumult Lucien once again felt the pull of fatigue in his bones.

He unfurled the next one, skimmed the first lines of pleasantries once more, and then focussed on the first paragraph of any substance. This one, he was shocked to find, was almost laughable in its frankness.

 _I didn't approve of your match at the time, and if I may be indulged my honesty, I still don't. If you only knew the price it could cost you, Lucien, to marry someone so different from yourself. I meant what I said; you stand to lose everything. You may feel I spoke out of turn, and I certainly can't change your mind now, but I can only hope that you are happy, and that Singapore is treating you well._

This time the anger didn't bite as before. Instead he checked the date on the letter again. If he had opened this at the time it arrived it would have made he and Mei Lin laugh together, sitting on their bed mocking the old man from half a world away. She was newly pregnant then, and they were deliriously happy; passionate in ways he never knew married people to be, living at the height of Singaporean society, with her family welcoming the respectable white Doctor into their arms as only Colonial Singaporeans could. They would have put on voices to each other as they bandied Thomas' words back and forth for years to come; it would have become a joke between them – _care to change your mind about me, darling?_ – and they would never have given another thought to the differences between them. Thomas truly had no idea what kind of marriage Lucien and Mei Lin had, and any loss of family that Lucien endured was done by his own father. No, this letter didn't bring forth the same contempt as the first, because in reality it was written without any authority at all. And so Lucien read on, just to see what he had to say.

 _Regardless of what was said, I would so love to meet your wife someday. I also don't like the rumblings I hear about Germany. I hope you don't go getting caught up in such things. Please, Lucien, come home now. Bring your wife with you if you must. It would be wonderful to show her the town in which you grew up._

Where he expected to feel rage at the obvious disrespect Thomas was showing Mei Lin – a woman he never met, and now never would – he was surprised to find he felt only pity. There was at least one sister of Thomas' that still lived near Ballarat, was unbelievably wealthy, and who Lucien had only very briefly met. His recollections of the woman painted a very grim picture; stern, and cold, and accusatory of Genevieve in a way that an eavesdropping young boy didn't understand. Thomas had given up his entire family and been wiped from them because of his love of a French woman. In some ways, and with hindsight, Lucien knew what his father was trying to say that night they screamed vulgar things at each other, and he knew what the letter in his hand meant. All of it weighed up to an apology that Thomas didn't know how to give. An attempt to pretend like their estrangement never happened.

The offer to bring Mei Lin was misguided. Singapore, at least when this letter was written, was treating them very kindly indeed, and together they had forged a marvellous life full of intrigue and grand parties and a love of culture and each other. But it was an olive branch that Lucien wasn't expecting, nonetheless. Thomas had reluctantly opened his door to the _foreign_ daughter-in-law he believed spelled the ruin of his only son, and in doing so Lucien found in him a level of kindness under the surface that he'd never seen before. The same kindness that invited Jean and her wayward sons to live in his house for the convenience of it all. The same kindness that embraced Lucien when he walked in with Li late that night, and offered an unconditional bed for as long as they both needed it.

Lucien knew he wouldn't find all the answers he was looking for tonight. He would have to speak to his father face-to-face for that. And he also knew that he couldn't read another letter now, as his arms grew heavy and his back ached to lie down. But he had gained enough; understood enough from just two correspondences to know that regardless, that conversation needed to happen.

When Thomas was well enough, they would have to talk, if only to clear the air as to what their next steps forward should look like. There would be patients to attend while Thomas recovered, and they would need to ensure the estate was in order should the unthinkable happen next time. All of them would have to make changes to diet and make Thomas walk into town more often, and none of it would be easy to enforce on a man who was so prideful and stubborn. But Lucien felt now more than ever the burden of being the master of the house, and for the first time in his life calmness overcame him at the thought. It would not be easy, but for now he would have to see it through to its natural conclusion, if for no other reason than to prove that his own stubbornness was a fierce creature indeed. _Like father like son,_ thought Lucien ruefully. If he decided he and Li should move on after that, well that was a conversation for a different hour, but in the meantime he was resolute in seeing his father recover and seeing Li settled into a new life in Ballarat.

Part of him was absolutely certain that Jean would help him with his endeavours, and that thought brought a smile to his face as he packed away his things and got ready for bed and the days ahead.


	11. Chapter 11

_**A/N:**_ _In my mind, the letter Lucien reads in canon was written after Thomas suffered his first health shock, except in the show Lucien wasn't there and he didn't know about the background. Here he does. Enjoy!_

~0~

Lucien placed a glass of water and the aspirin bottle on the side table next to the bed while Thomas hunkered himself into the mound of pillows behind him. There was little dignity in it all – they were back at home and Thomas was entrusted to his son's care, but the district nurse would call around daily to ensure he was exercising correctly, and Lucien was under strict instructions regarding Thomas' diet and movements, including nightly ablutions and a dose of aspirin to break up any remaining clots in his arteries. They didn't look at each other as Lucien got his bedtime things ready and Thomas settled for the evening, his upper body still elevated to ease the strain on his heart.

There was no point keeping him at the hospital taking up a bed when it wasn't needed, but Thomas was still very weak and dependant on Lucien and Jean to tend to him, which annoyed him to no end. For now everyone remained civil, as they had to focus on the very real threat to life, but they could all feel the storm rumbling underneath just the same and it made everyone nervous to think of the eventual breaking point. There would be a time – probably in the next few days – when Thomas felt well enough to start fending for himself, though in reality he wouldn't be. And when that time came, he would grate on them all to allow his freedom, and Jean and Lucien would present a united front against him, and when that came all hell would break loose.

Luckily for Thomas, he was still far too weak and tired for all that, and so he allowed his son to fuss in that stilted, uncomfortable way.

"You have everything?" asked Lucien. He felt beyond awkward.

Thomas just grunted his response, mostly a yes but really just to give a response at all. He was trying – so very hard – not to be churlish and push his son aside. He wanted to thank Lucien, and he wanted to embrace him, and he wanted all the hurt to wash away in a blink, but it wasn't that easy. They were both so damaged, and had lived through a terrible fright together, but even that was not enough to forget all the difficult conversations they would have to endure.

"You'll be back in your feet soon enough" said Lucien, trying to placate Thomas, obviously thinking he was angry or put out. Which he was, but only a little bit. He was just so tired – physically worn out despite days in bed, and emotionally stretched tight.

"Thank you, Lucien" said Thomas in reply. He didn't want to unwittingly add to the tension between them by seeming ungrateful, for in truth he was beyond glad to have his son close through this awful time. He shuddered to think how he would have coped if he'd tried to send another letter to him from his hospital bed only to have it returned unopened and unread.

Lucien had always been a brilliant boy – so bright and kind and full of questions. And Thomas had wanted that quality to be fostered and nurtured; paid good money to a boarding school in Melbourne to see his mind thrive. He knew Lucien was so very bright, but Thomas was also taken by his professionalism, and by the way he carried himself during this crisis. Yes he had been a soldier, and perhaps Thomas had always given too much credence to that side of his son; the side he didn't understand that seemed so foreign from his own experience; the side that reminded him too much of men blown half to pieces, returning home after the Great War to never fully be healed. But Lucien was a doctor too, a healer like Thomas himself, and Thomas was struck by the revelation of just how brilliant Lucien could be; to have so many facets and seemingly employ all of them to see his father well again; the discipline of the soldier, but the caring of the doctor.

There was so much Thomas didn't know about him, and he wanted more than anything to take this opportunity – this new lease on life – to really listen to him, perhaps for the first time in their relationship. There were no barriers here anymore. There was no time to dawdle with the conversations that mattered. It would hurt, but it was necessary, and at last Thomas knew what Jean had been trying so hard to say. He could have lost this chance, and it would have robbed them all of the healing they so richly deserved. He could have left his son not knowing just how loved he was, and his only granddaughter with only half a truth about her family. He could have spoiled everything with his stubborn pride that meant nothing in the face of the pearly gates.

It was a hard lesson to realise that the truths he held so close to his heart were made of air and delusions. It was a lot to ask a man such as Thomas to set aside his pride. And perhaps he never would, not in full, but he would do his best, and he would start with the first of many small wounds inflicted over the years.

"Will you show me a picture of your wife?"

Lucien was so startled by the question he couldn't speak, but after a moment – a breath in which he gauged his father's sincerity and found it to be true – he just nodded, and then straightened to go upstairs and retrieve it. Thomas had seen a picture years ago when Lucien announced his engagement. The young woman had been dressed in a long embroidered dress and posed in front of a bamboo screen – a pretty posed scene that was obviously taken especially for Lucien to take home. But Thomas wanted to see who she had become, and who she had been to Lucien. He wanted to see the picture he knew his son must keep close, which spelled the truth of what he had spurned his father to keep. It was suddenly very important to Thomas that he meet the woman his son had given up everything to marry, even if only in memory and prayer.

Lucien left the room in a daze, still taken aback by the request but having no real reason to refuse it. In the hall he encountered Jean, and she had a funny look on her face as he passed – one of askance and curiosity, and Lucien had to wonder just what his own face said in return, for he felt utterly stunned. She paused on her way, her arms full of sheets, and in his haste he didn't even think to offer to help her, as he would have any other time.

"I'll be right back" he said, which didn't really answer anything, but before she could protest he had bounded up the stairs two at a time and was walking briskly into the blue room to collect the small tin that held his mementos. His clothes had all been washed and folded and put into the draws of the dresser, and his jacket was aired out and ironed, hanging in the small wardrobe in the room. It was all Jean's doing, he knew; her efforts to make the room his own and make him consider perhaps staying here more permanently, which was a moot point in the immediate future. Thomas was only released from the hospital under the proviso that he would be in his son's care, a fellow physician, and Lucien still hadn't solved the problem of his employment or lodgings.

It seemed fate had intervened, for he would first do no harm, and with his father so ill he felt duty-bound to render assistance enough to take on patients in the practice while Thomas recovered.

For the time being, he and Li would be staying on at the Blake house, and as such he didn't feel that Jean's meddling in his belongings was an impost, instead it was a reprieve; one less thing for him to consider while they all adjusted to this new normal. Which, he realised – quite belatedly, for the clothes had been washed early that morning – Jean must have known, and hence her help was quite a deliberate thing.

He shook his head at his musings of her, and felt guilty for them as he opened the box and took out the smiling picture of his small family. He wouldn't show Thomas all of the contents just yet – one picture would suffice to answer his questions – but in time perhaps he would trust his father with the rest of his heart.

He came back down the stairs with a little more dignity, remembering that Li was already tucked in bed and not wanting to wake her.

When he walked back into Thomas' room, there was an air of expectation and of excitement, and Lucien could see in his father's countenance that he was rather looking forward to seeing the picture. It was a sad thing, to be sure; he should be meeting the real life woman, and welcoming her into this house, not fawning over her picture from years ago. But Mei Lin perished in their attempts to get her and Li out of the city – Lucien's friends in the area had seen it with their own eyes. She would never come to Ballarat to make her introductions, and so this paltry consolation would have to do.

Lucien sat in the chair by his father's side while Thomas took the picture gently, and with unexpected reverence, and his eyes danced over the image for long moments, taking in the scene; Li's giggling face, Lucien's chest puffed up with pride, Mei Lin's indulgent smile as she obviously fought to keep Li still for the picture.

"She's beautiful, Lucien" said Thomas, his voice so soft and his eyes deeply sad. "Your family is… it's beautiful"

It was more powerful than an apology, in many ways, for it was validation of everything Lucien knew to be true. His father could see now – could understand at least a little of what he missed out on by stubbornly rejecting his son's path. There had been so much happiness in their life in Singapore; theirs was a family that was proud, not one which sat in the shadow of doubts and condemnation.

Thomas had been proud of his family, too. He still was, despite everything. And it pained him and brought a lump to his throat to think that he had missed that vital clue; that he had failed to understand that the very reasons his son walked out the door and never came back were the same reasons he had walked through town with his head held high and his beautiful French bride on his arm.

Because he loved her. And he loved their life together. And in the end that had been worth more than the judgements of his pitiless sister or town gossips. And though Thomas would always believe that marrying a Singaporean girl had been the wrong choice for Lucien, he was starting to at least understand why.

" _Was_ beautiful" said Lucien, gently taking back the picture and tracing his thumb over the faces. "Now it's just broken"

Thomas' eyes welled with tears as he watched his gentle-hearted boy struggle so desperately against the sorrows that haunted him. He had endured so much, it was difficult for Thomas to conceptualise that the tiny young thing he'd packed away into a taxi was now a grown man, hardened by life, a father himself. Yet underneath all of that experience and torture and unending pain, Thomas could see the gentle son he had once called too much like his mother, his heart fit to bursting with all the hope and optimism it held for humanity, and his soul reaching out to embrace the world. That boy was still inside Lucien, quieted but never quelled, and though Thomas had once rebuffed him, it gave him immense delight to recognise him now.

"Broken things can be mended" he said gently, so unlike himself. "There is love here too"

It was a platitude that could have missed its mark had it not been for the fact that Thomas Blake was not one to give in to sentimentality. Coming from his lips such a comment was a surprise, and it must have showed on Lucien's face for they both looked down in mild embarrassment. Lucien looked around his father's room for a moment, composing himself and taking stock of the space. It was dark and Spartan, and reflected the man himself, he thought. Thomas had never felt more judged in his life.

"I never wanted to come back to Ballarat" said Lucien to the wall. "I wanted to be better than that"

"What do you mean, _better_?"

Unsure whether to be offended or remorseful, Thomas settled somewhere in the middle, but Lucien paid him no mind, as he seemed surprised by his own admission. The late hour, the honesty of the moment, the softness of the light – all of it was making his tongue loose like it never was in the middle of the day.

"I wanted to make you proud of me for forging my own path" he said. Visions of his teenage-self making plans for Edinburgh flashed in his mind, though he was yet incapable of admitting that he aimed for such lofty heights just to see the pride on his father's face when he set sail.

Lucien sighed deeply, and looked down at the photo in his hand, his eyes full of tears. "But it seems my path was made of misery, so here I am instead, back on the one you carved out for me"

"Oh Lucien", Thomas sighed, and looked every bit his age. There were tears in his eyes too, and Lucien didn't know how to handle such a demonstrative show of emotion. His father was a stoic man – a man bound to his work, and emotionally unavailable. His father was not a man who cried, save for that sunny day by the graveside as they watched the coffin lowered into the ground. Lucien's strongest memories of his father were always tainted by that coldness in one form or another, but he knew there must have also been love. He remembered missing his father terribly those first few years he was away at school and not wishing to go back at the end of each school holiday. He remembered being so excited to show him a new toy or beg to play with him even during the working day. And Thomas had spurned his entire family to marry Genevieve, a woman so full of life and artistry that she shone when she walked in a room; no heartless man could have devoted himself so fully to such a wife, and Lucien knew there must have been love between father and son while he was growing up. Maybe not in the way that there was love between Lucien and Li – so open and happy and full of joy – but not every relationship was built on the same foundations.

The heart attack seemed to have drained Thomas of the reticence he once lived by, just enough that he was willing to say what he never would before. He had felt the clutch of death, the cold hand brushing by him so closely he could very easily have been dragged away. And then what? To leave his son, his only child, without knowing the depth of his regret and the ocean of his love? To forever condemn their relationship to harsh _what-ifs_ and _could-have-beens_?

Thomas was a proud man, but even he had his limits.

"All I've ever hoped for" said Thomas, his voice thick with tears. "Is that you would do your best"

Lucien sucked in a breath, remembering the pocket watch his father had given to him as a boy; he remembered handing the damned thing back in the heat of their final, decisive argument, like the last nail in the coffin. He remembered wishing his best was good enough for his father, and not understanding at the time why it wasn't; why his happiness over his engagement was so ill-received; why his father would do to him the very thing his own family had done.

Thomas continued past the memory, determined, "And that you would find someone to love you regardless of what happened next"

"But I did" cried Lucien, sudden and forceful. He stood from his father's bedside to pace around the room, overcome by a sudden rush of frustration. He would not yell, and he would not leave, but he did need some distance between them to get his thoughts in order. "I don't know how I can make you understand, I found that woman, Dad"

 _And then I lost her._

The words echoed unspoken between them, but heard all the same. Thomas' eyes turned soft, and then mournful. They both knew the toll that had been wrought in the intervening years; they both felt the absence of Mei Lin like a dagger to the heart.

"I can see that" he said. And he did, for he had long ago resigned himself to Lucien's marriage, and he could see in their portrait that his life had been a happy one. But there was still a bite in his words. Thomas knew Lucien had found true love in his wife, just as surely as he knew that love had led his son directly into Selarang and single-parenthood. It wasn't Mei Lin's fault – he would never place blame on a young woman ripped from this world and unable to defend herself – but Thomas would never stop believing that the choice had been wrong, even if it had been for the right reasons.

"Would you have given up Mother?" asked Lucien, and his eyes pierced Thomas so surely that his heart clenched in his chest. It was a death blow to any lingering argument he may have, for they both knew the answer to that question.

No. He would not have given up his beautiful Genevieve for all the world. Not for his sister, or for _the right choice,_ or even to have spared his own children the estrangement from their wider family that followed. Lucien knew that. Lucien had done the exact same thing. _Like father, like son_ indeed.

And in that answer Thomas lost any higher ground he may think to have, because Lucien was right; it had been his life to live, and it was nobody's fault – save maybe the Japanese – that it had gone the way it did. It had been Lucien's choice to follow his heart to Singapore, and at the very least that union had brought forth the delightful little Li and a few years of wedded bliss. So focussed on being a parent, Thomas had never stopped to consider that part of fatherhood involved letting go; instilling the lessons into his son only to watch him fly free and have to learn them all on his own all over again.

Suddenly he was so tired. So spent from a conversation long overdue yet deeper than he realised it would be. And he would go back on some of his position here – he knew in the light of day the pendulum would swing him further to middle ground again – but for now just hearing Lucien's point of view was draining him of the last of his reserves, so much that all he could manage any more was a very gentle, _I'm sorry_.

Lucien sighed, and took his seat again. He seemed tired too. He lost some of the fight that was in him, conceding that such a conversation – the longest civil encounter he could ever recall having with his father – was more fruitful than could have been hoped for.

"I wish you could have realised this sooner" he said, scrubbing one hand over his face.

Thomas nodded, his eyes slipping closed as his body sagged into the pillows behind him.

"So do I" he said.

Lucien watched his father for a moment, and from deep within him a smile broke free. It was the most honest they had ever been, the most politely they had argued, and for a second Lucien forgot to be mad at Thomas and instead felt overwhelming gratitude to be sitting beside him at all. He took his father's hand, not caring if he was awake or asleep, but desperate to feel the connection between them. Under his palm, Thomas' fingers flexed against his in acknowledgement, and though he kept his eyes closed, his body falling further towards sleep, he smiled just a little as well.

"I've missed you, son" he said on a whisper. "I've missed you"

He was asleep before he could see tears finally fall free on Lucien's cheeks.


	12. Chapter 12

_Thank you for your patience! I know it's a little slow this month, but I'm still here and working, so I greatly appreciate you sticking around. Enjoy!_

~0~

It was a beautiful summer day, the sky clear, and for the first time since April the breeze held none of the bite that was so typical of Ballarat during the rest of the year. For all intents and purposes it was a glorious day, but Jean strolled into church that Sunday with a slight feeling of apprehension in her heart. She couldn't place where the feeling came from, or what may have caused such discontent; in fact if she had to put a better name to it she would call it guilt. But there was nothing to be guilty for, save the usual lingering memories of her argument with Christopher that always lingered in the corner of her vision, and so she walked with purpose and a small frown on her face, convinced that with enough prayer God would provide her an answer.

Thomas was at home and resting well. Yes, it had only been one full day, and yes, things would only start to get difficult going forward, but so far father and son seemed to have come to a tentative impasse. She would even call it a peace, but Jean knew better than to tempt fate. She was getting used to tending to Doctor Blake with care and gentleness, something she hadn't needed to do before, but even that was easy enough given the man was practically bed-bound. His medical patients had all been contacted over the weekend to inform them of the situation; they were given the option of seeing Lucien Blake instead should they be adamantly against seeing Doctor Brookes in town. Some had taken the offer, most not, but it was one less thing to worry about.

As she sat in the pew, and looked up the nave at the golden alter, and the statues of Mary along the walls, Jean searched for the reason for her unease. It wasn't like her to carry such a heavy heart and not know its cause; usually she knew exactly what her sins entailed, why God had punished her or sent her judgement, and usually she bore her repentance with grace and humility. But on this day her thoughts swirled, right through the Mass that she recited without thought, and into the silence that followed the congregation leaving again. If Father Morton noticed her distress he didn't say anything, just left her to her devices, waiting for her to approach him for her forgiveness or to unburden her heart.

Jean let her thoughts drift long and far, back to the reason for her quick marriage and the pain that followed, back to the love she bore for her sons and the way they seemed to drift further away the older they got, back to the awful argument she and Christopher had that sent him to his death. She let her thoughts track through her shame of losing the farm, and the relief of Doctor Blake's offer to take on a live-in housekeeper quite without reason, except for kindness. On and on it went, her fingers tracking around her rosary without really saying one prayer, just for something to keep her grounded. Just for something to point her towards the reason for her disquiet.

Unbidden and quite suddenly, a memory of sharing a cup of tea that morning with Lucien came to mind. Smiling at one another in comradery and conspiring together to ensure Thomas had a decent wellness plan going forward, to ensure his recovery. Grinning over the rim of her cup as she watched Lucien's eyes sparkle, in a way that was becoming alarmingly familiar, the early light of the day promising a brighter future. Letting her gaze linger just a fraction longer than proper for a woman of her position.

With a jolt she realised what sat deep under her breast like a bindi or a blackberry thorn, and it was undoubtedly the familiar companion of guilt. She felt guilty because, for the first time in over five years – since she learned of her husband's death in the Solomon's – Jean had looked at a man and lusted after him.

Well, she thought, giving herself some slack, not so much _lusted_ as… was intrigued by him. Romantically speaking. Was drawn in by his warm eyes and his broad shoulders, the hair that curled at the nape of his neck because he hadn't yet been into town to have it trimmed and shaped. She didn't necessarily, at the time, want all those things in her bed, but she did notice them, and briefly – fleetingly, without even noticing she was doing it – wondered what they would feel like under her hand. Sitting there in the kitchen that morning, she had looked at Lucien Blake and let herself think, for a single precious moment, _what if_ , and she could weep at her own weakness and shame.

Life had been too busy and her heart too battered to entertain romance in the years since the war, but Jean was still a woman well under forty, still lithe and pretty, and liked by most. There had been some men interested in courting her, though she had steered them away with all the grace of a mournful widow. But as she stood up in the aisle of St Patrick's Cathedral and looked over to the confessional booths, Jean felt a sudden need to unburden her soul of what she could only call an utter betrayal of Christopher's memory.

~0~

The next day was the start of a new week, and for Jean the start of a new chapter. Having sought her penance and done her prayers and tried and failed to banish the memory of what she had felt, Jean resolved to banish all thoughts of Lucien Blake from her mind and to carry on in her duties as though nothing was amiss.

Which was proving rather difficult, as the man was always underfoot. Even late at night when the rest of the house was retiring, he refused to leave the kitchen while she was finishing her chores.

"Jean, you are a marvel" he said, as she placed a freshly washed white shirt on the table in front of him, the previous stains long gone under her mending.

"It was nothing, really" she answered, and turned her back to him to do the dishes at the sink. "Just a bit of elbow grease"

 _Focus on the child_ , had been Father Morton's advice. As well as the customary ten Hail Mary's and an Our Father, he had listened to her stilted explanation of her emotional betrayal, had offered her carte blanche forgiveness so long as she never succumbed to the Devil's temptation. His only practical suggestion had been that if she was to remain in the household she would need to redirect her thoughts. And so Jean was determined not to leave herself alone with Lucien too often, and not to give him any reason to speak personally to her – such as praising her so openly and honestly over washing a damned shirt.

 _Turn your mind to the child,_ rang Father Morton's words in her ear, _and see her flourish as God watches his own children like a shepherd watches his flock_.

And so she would, forgetting all about her small and unintended transgression. She would focus all her future energies on Li, when Thomas didn't need her, and see to it that the girl had all the love and kindness Jean could offer. If this was to be her home, and given she was motherless, Jean knew it would be up to her to provide that feminine influence as she grew into a young woman. Jean didn't feel she had done right by her sons, and the ache of the absence of her own daughter was never far from her heart, but Li didn't need a mother; she had Lucien, who did a fine job. No, the girl just needed a guiding hand and perhaps a teacher along the way, and for all her faults, Jean knew she at least could be that. And in the meantime there would be no reason to think any further on pithy _what if_ s, because she was the housekeeper, and the receptionist, and now the medical assistant as circumstances demanded, and nothing more.

But damn Lucien Blake, he was not making it easy for her.

"You sell yourself short" he said to her back, and she dared to turn around, which was an inevitable mistake that left her resolve in tatters.

His smile was disarming. It was showing itself more and more frequently, lightly touching his face at the smallest provocation, and so often – she was loath to have noticed – directed at her. They worked well together, side by side, although she thought him a tad lazy as he entrusted the accounts and patient notes to her from the first moment he could. He claimed ignorance and wanting to uphold his father's system of filing, but Jean knew if he really wanted he would learn it quickly enough. No, Lucien was more intrigued by the puzzle, and once he started rummaging in the small laboratory Thomas kept next to the surgery, Lucien lost all patience for mundane administration in favour of a late night running test after test, some warranted, most not. She warned him not to make a habit of it, but she knew that was a losing battle; he was prone to being awake at all hours of the night anyway, and being in the laboratory kept him entertained and out of trouble. So she let him be with a reproachful glance.

An indignant little voice wanted to ask him, if she was to take on the mantle of administration officer as well as housekeeper and receptionist, should not her wage reflect that. But it was a wholly unChristian thought and not one she would dare voice aloud to the master of the house. She could, however, make as many subtle hints as possible as to Lucien's own ability to pick up the slack now and then, or at the very least offer to make her a cup of tea.

"I could teach you if you like" she said, tilting her head in slight challenge, daring him to take up her offer to learn the finer points of laundering. To his credit he at least looked chastised, and lost some of the charm he was laying on for her benefit.

She felt guilty about being so haughty and deflated a little. He was still a lost soul; she was still fearful he might decide to find his own place to live. It wasn't his fault that he had awakened in her feelings she thought were not hers to have once more, and he wasn't to know what troubled her heart. While her focus was to be on Li, that didn't mean she had to shut him out; and so she accepted that the Lord was simply testing her, collected two cups from the drying rack and the freshly-poured teapot, and sat by Lucien in conciliation.

"I've been meaning to talk to you" said Jean, gently and with hesitance, pouring him a cup with her hand holding the teapot lid still.

"About?"

She avoided looking at his face, which was no doubt open and curious and kind. "About Li"

The air shifted – not hostile, as such, but guarded. It always was when Jean mentioned Li, as though the girl's very name raised Lucien's hackles on instinct. She understood why; they hadn't spoken about their parenting since that first difficult conversation, and there were some things that were understood to be off-limits. Lucien might like Jean, and respect her place in the house, but when it came to his daughter he turned wild around the edges. It was a stark reminder of their history, quite unnecessarily so, but ever-present and unlikely to really leave them both in the years to come. The war ravaged them all, but some more than others, and Jean knew that she had to tread a very fine line or risk tearing to shreds the little trust they had built between them.

"What about Li?" asked Lucien, his voice hard and brittle.

Jean took a calming breath, but carried on forward. "She's been very quiet the last few days. Since your father…"

Lucien nodded and Jean let her sentence linger. They had been so focussed on Thomas that Li fell much by the wayside, but they both noticed how scared and reserved she was in the face of a house in turmoil.

"I spoke with her" said Lucien. He sounded remarkably like his father, which made Jean sad. "She understands what's happening"

She knew when she started this conversation that he wouldn't make it easy, and yet she failed to accept just how difficult it would truly be; already Jean saw the defensiveness in Lucien, the way he wanted to shut her down in an instant, and while her first reaction was to bite back it wouldn't do anybody good if she did. Taking a sip of her tea to steal herself and seem less threatening – after all, how awful could a small woman with a tea cup in hand truly be – she held her cup daintily with one hand while running the bright red nail of the other along the grain of the wood in the table.

"At the risk of overstepping" she said gently, innocently. "I think she knows what is happening… but I'm not sure she understands it"

There was a moment of silence in which Jean knew they could go one of two ways. And while she hoped that her help would be received in the spirit in which it was intended, equally she understood that a near-stranger making any comment on someone's child was an affront, let alone a child as cherished and traumatised as Li. If Lucien chose to remain protective, as he already was, and if he followed his natural instinct to run, which he was already fighting against, it would be Jean's fault that they left this house and never came back, and she would never forgive herself.

On the other hand, he could listen to what she had to say, which – after a moment that felt like an absolute lifetime, her pulse thumping in her ears – it seemed he was inclined to do.

"What do you mean by that?" asked Lucien. He was frowning, and sounded distrustful, but it was telling that he held her in high enough regard to listen to what she had to say, even if Jean had to dance in a million circles before she could say it. Lucien was in possession of a surgeon's ego, and though it had been beaten quite low during the war, the longer he was safe the stronger it built itself back up. He was quietly arrogant and deeply charming, and in his youth must have cut quite the figure, overrunning ballrooms and commanding the attention of every man and woman in sight. Jean had known men like him before, and mostly found them unpleasant and lacking in virtues.

But in Lucien the traits felt oddly earned. From what little she had learned of him, he was quite brilliant. She wouldn't like to see his arrogance turn into entitlement – it was a fine but important line that Jean found deeply unattractive in a person – yet here she was questioning his judgement. And there he sat giving her the opportunity to explain. It chaffed at her sensibilities to admit that she was rather humbled by the gesture, and so she ploughed on ahead, in for a penny; in for a pound.

"All she knows is that Doctor Blake was taken ill quite suddenly" said Jean gently, couching her concerns about Li in vague generalisations. "And now you and I are tending to this house like we're just waiting for the bottom to fall out"

Lucien's brow lost all hostility and his shoulders sank as his eyes darted away from her and looked around the kitchen before landing on the red of her nails. She must have touched on a feeling already brewing inside him, for his reaction to her words seemed too sudden to have only been caused by them.

"Maybe we are" he replied, and Jean could sense the bone-deep weariness inside him; the fatigue of the last few days summed up so simply in a few choice words. They were both waiting for the other shoe to drop because, for both of them, it always did. And sorrow always seemed to rain down in torrents, not in trickles – surely one survivable heart attack was not all that God had in store for them.

"Maybe" said Jean, nodding to him in understanding. She felt solidarity with Lucien in that moment; a deeper appreciation. But after her confession that day and the way life seemed to have blown Lucien and Li through the door on a heavy wind, Jean knew they couldn't afford to wallow in melancholy any longer. Something had been shaken loose by the past week, something Jean couldn't yet name, and never one to sit idle she knew they had to start moving forward instead of always waiting for the past to catch them. Lucien and his father were talking, and Jean had a young girl to watch over, and Li had a new life in Ballarat to start living, and none of it allowed room for their navel-gazing in the kitchen late at night.

"I think Li knows something is wrong" said Jean, waiting for Lucien to catch her eye. "And I think it's time we stopped believing it is"

His brow remained furrowed, but something softened in the corners of his eyes that spoke of a deep hope. He wasn't just listening to what she had to say now, he was hanging on her every word, no doubt hoping that she could provide him with an answer he was unable to see for himself through the fog of fatigue and emotional strain.

"He may still have another attack, Jean" he said. The thought caused such sorrow; just as they were starting to mend what had been broken for so long, Thomas might yet suffer another attack, and a second one would surely finish him off. Lucien had lost so much already, she shuddered to think what it would do to him to lose his father as well. And Jean herself would once again be cast out into the cold with nowhere to go, very little money, and hardly a prospect. The thought didn't bear repeating.

"I know" she said. She gave him a look of sympathy, pursing her lips in a non-smile that gave up some of her ground. "I don't mean to overstep. But didn't you say yourself that only time would tell?"

Jean took another sip of her tea, and watched as Lucien took the bait she laid out for him. It wasn't up to her to tell him how to feel or what to think of the situation, but if there was one skill her station in life – and the ladies of the sewing circle – had taught her, it was how to plant a seed and watch it grow. His brow softened entirely, his eyes flicking back and forth as he processed her words and realised he was not practicing what he preached. He went on and on about waiting, and not tempting fate, and taking things one day at a time, but the most dangerous period had passed without issue and the district nurse was pleased with Thomas' care and condition.

The worst of the storm had been weathered, and maybe it was time they allowed themselves to hope everything would turn out alright, instead of expecting that it wouldn't, if not for their own sakes then for Li.

Jean watched Lucien pick up his cup and sip his tea, a tiny smile in the corner of her mouth as she considered her victory.

~0~

Li knew she was supposed to be asleep. And she could also hear the adults softly talking in the kitchen, completely absorbed in their conversation so that they weren't paying the slightest attention to Li as she snuck down the stairs and into the doorway of her grandfather's room. She didn't make a sound on the boards as she went, and stood in the shadows as she watched him.

The older man was buoyed on his pillows reading his newspaper – his glasses were propped on the end of his nose and he was tilted towards the light of his bedside lamp to make out the stories a little better. If not for the pallor of his skin and the way he was tucked in bed, he could easily be reclined in his armchair, enjoying his nightly rituals, ignoring his need for a stronger glasses prescription.

Li stood in the doorway and watched him for a long while, the lace of her frilled nighty collar tucked firmly in her mouth the way a baby might suck its thumb for comfort. She had been forbidden from entering the room for the first day and on the second was invited in only to say goodnight to her grandfather. The grown-ups were still keeping her away for reasons she didn't understand, and she was determined to find out why, even if it meant disobeying her father for the first time in recent memory.

"Are you going to stand there watching me all night, young lady, or are you going to come in and say hello"

Li just about jumped out of her skin at the sound of Thomas' voice, and he didn't look away from his paper until he was finished speaking. He peered over his glasses at her; the softness in his eyes made his harsh words somehow very kind. He smiled at her, just a little, and put his paper down in his lap to give her his full attention.

"Come on" said Thomas, his voice soft. "Come sit here by me"

Li looked to the seat by his bedside, and then back to Thomas – spying was one thing, but walking inside the room when she had been expressly told not to was entirely another.

"It's alright" said Thomas, gesturing again. And then, because he could see she was still on the precipice, he winked at her. "I won't tell your father if you don't"

And that seemed to be the final sign she needed, for a grin broke out on her face at the thought of them being co-conspirators; of fooling her father together without Li getting into trouble – and she bounded across the room to sit in the seat by Thomas' bedside.


	13. Chapter 13

_Merry Christmas, and Happy Holiday Season if you don't celebrate. I wanted to get this one out to you before the New Year, so yay! Here it is. Thank you to my readers, and thank you for your patience; as always, Enjoy!_

~0~

Jean was just finishing up rinsing out their tea cups and mentioning what her errands were for the following day, when Lucien interrupted her with a finger in the air.

"Shh, did you hear that?"

Although at first a little miffed he dared to shush her – something she would never have tolerated from her boys – Jean was immediately on alert by the look on Lucien's face. They both stopped their conversation and listened out, just down the hall. Jean was prepared for an intruder, or perhaps another long lost relative knocking on the door, after all stranger things had happened, but as she listened it was nothing of the sort. Thomas' voice was talking, his words too soft and muffled to make out, but that familiar timbre echoing nonetheless. In between the low cadence of a man's voice, a smaller voice rang out, and they both realised it was a conversation between Thomas and Li just down the hall.

Lucien's eyes went wide with shock, as though the thought of Li disobeying him had never crossed his mind before, and when Jean saw the look she glanced away and down, hiding her smirk behind her hand. It was endearing, really, for him to be so naïve. For him not to think the girl would disobey him at some point. Children snuck out of beds for all kinds of reasons; Li was only proving Jean's point that she wouldn't remain content with half explanations for very long. She was too bright, and had seen too much, to let her deference to Lucien's authority override her natural curiosity.

Still, it was heart-warming to know the girl had gone and sought out her grandfather of her own accord at such a late hour while her father enjoyed a quiet cup of tea.

"She's supposed to be in bed" said Lucien, seemingly the only thing he could think to say.

Jean smirked and couldn't stop one eyebrow from raising in mirth. "And yet, it seems your father's company was the preferred choice"

Lucien's face would have looked thunderous if not for the sweetness of the moment and the complete overreaction it heralded. He must have known that speaking harshly would not serve any purpose, and Jean could just about pinpoint the moment he realised that storming into the front room would be a thoroughly _Thomas_ thing to do. Even so, he was determined that Li's defiance not go unnoticed, and went to stand abruptly from his seat.

"Oh Lucien, don't disturb them just yet. It's good they are talking"

He looked at her long and hard. Jean kept her face neutral, her expression innocent and pleading, even as her heart thundered in her ears. She was surprised at herself – addressing him so casually, giving him orders like she had any authority at all. But in reality she did; Jean was a mother, a single parent herself, and her boys had caused far more mischief than little Li ever could. Jean had tried every reaction under the sun to reign her boys in when they overstepped the boundaries she had put in place, but really natural curiosity was not something to scold, even if Li's timing was a little bit off.

And there was a part of Jean – a part emerging ever-closer to the surface – that wanted to remind Lucien that maybe what scared him most was not Li's disobedience, but that the apple hadn't fallen far from the tree. Something told her that he had been just as bright and curious as a boy, and it was only by luck and good guidance that it had led to success and not prison.

Lucien looked at her for such a long moment Jean very nearly kept speaking – the look on his face stunned, like he too couldn't believe she dared tell him how to raise his daughter – but seeing no malice in her demands he nodded once and then listened down the hall a little closer.

"I should at least go and check she's not bothering him" he said. Lucien turned on his toes and walked with all the stealth of a secret agent down the hallway.

Jean smirked, for she could read the real reason he wanted to go and take a peak, and it had very little to do with seeing to his father's welfare. Lucien Blake had a patent fear of missing out, and it took all of Jean's careful willpower not to point that out to him, even as she dropped her tea towel on the kitchen table and follow him silently through the halls.

The approached the door in tip-toe, Jean just behind Lucien's back and his hand held out behind him to gesture that she should remain so. It was a practiced move, from years of secreting around far more dangerous territories than his childhood home. But Jean barely noticed, for she had got so caught up in the game of hide and seek that she was too busy listening to the voices coming from inside the room. The two of them stood by the door, close enough to listen but out of the beam of light coming from inside so they wouldn't be seen. Li's soft voice was reciting a story in clear and accented English, her words flowing freely.

Lucien wanted to see what they were doing, but didn't want to disturb the scene too soon – Li was half way through a particularly hilarious story from their time on the boat back to Australia, involving the Captain's wife and a bartender that didn't realise he was making double-strength cocktails, and Lucien knew from experience that Li had a deft way of telling the punchline to make even the most caustic man roar laughing. Not even Lucien wanted to rob his own father of that moment.

But he still wanted to see, and was searching for a readily available reflecting surface, when from behind him Jean tapped his shoulder. He turned to see her holding out her small round compact, her handbag in her other hand. She must have scurried off to collect them from the hallstand without Lucien even noticing she was gone. He stared at the mirror in her hand, then at Jean, then back to the mirror, his face the pure image of shock and awe. Jean thrust the compact at him again, her eyebrows up in askance, and he shook from his reverie to take it from her, setting aside his questions for the minute with a nod to her in thanks.

Popping it open, Lucien angled the compact around the doorframe to catch a quick look at Li, sitting the chair by her grandfather's bed, pulled right up to the side and gesturing wildly as she told her story. Her legs didn't reach the floor, and they swung in excitement as she spoke. Thomas watched her with rapt attention, his closest hand steading her as she nearly fell over the bed while demonstrating the Captain's wife, and there was a look on his face that tugged so vividly at a memory that it sent Lucien reeling.

He and his mother, the record player late one night, dancing around the living room as he stepped on his mother's toes and she laughed so loudly, and Thomas sitting in the armchair with his paper forgotten on his lap and that exact look on his face. Watching them dearly, before Lucien pulled him to his feet to take his place and dance with Genevieve. Thomas' face never changing as he indulged his wife and son their fun and frivolity, if only for one night.

Thomas was watching Li now with that same look on his face – one Lucien hadn't seen for over thirty years – and he was glad he hadn't interrupted this moment for it was very precious indeed.

Lucien took away the mirror before they got caught, and handed it back to Jean in thanks. She didn't question the look on his face or the way they stood silent sentinel at the door, still not moving in; she looked at Lucien in curiosity, but when it became clear he wouldn't be going inside just yet, Jean just shrugged and stood straighter to linger near his shoulder, placing her handbag on the floor by her feet.

They stood there as Li finished her story, and just as she was getting to the best part Lucien turned his head to watch Jean, a very gentle look on his face – as expected her hand flew up to cover her mouth, just as a hearty belly-laugh echoed out from Thomas. Lucien bit his lip to stifle his laughter, and looked away from Jean just before she looked up at him, lest he be caught watching her.

He couldn't quite explain the feeling of home he felt, having a co-conspirator to sneak around halls alongside, and didn't think Jean would understand what he was trying to say if he told her that she was quickly becoming his right hand. He didn't want to give her the wrong impression; yes, Jean was a beautiful woman, and watching the light in her eyes as she tried to smother her laughter enamoured Lucien to her further. But more than that, she was a rock he didn't expect to find in the rough seas that were Ballarat; she was kind, and gentle, but wanted to keep him and Li steady, and Lucien suspected that underneath her straight back and acerbic wit there was a woman full of joy, to whom life had been inexcusably unkind. Jean was old-fashioned values and a non-judgement heart; she was practicality and joie de vivre all at once, and Lucien wasn't sure how to tell her all the ways she made this house bearable for him as he found his footing once more.

Breaking himself away from that train of thought – any moment he would take Jean in his arms and hug her, which would no doubt cross some kind of line and startle them both – Lucien met her eye and jerked his head towards the room. Jean nodded at him, understanding his meaning. He cleared his throat rather loudly, announcing his presence, and then stepped into the gap of the door and the light of the lamp.

"Li Zhen Blake, just what are you doing out of bed?"

Though Li squeaked in surprise, and looked rather chastised, she could tell right away that her father wasn't truly angry, and so she stayed right where she was until further notice. Lucien eyed her with a raised brow – something akin to _you know you're in a little bit of trouble_ – and stood just inside the doorway with his hands on his hips. Thomas looked at his son and the demeanour of the room – judged for himself that it wasn't truly hostile – and decided to answer for himself.

"I'll have you know, Lucien, that Li was keeping me company. I was just so bored in here by myself"

Lucien looked at his father – the shock of the man's easiness was far too much to deal with just yet, and so instead he focussed back at Li with an expectant look.

"Come on" said Lucien, holding his hand out to her. "Say your goodnights young lady"

Li hopped off the seat with her head bowed, but before she could step too far away Thomas tapped her hand with a conspiratorial look on his face. "We'll pick this up later" And then he winked at her, making her grin.

From her place at the bedroom doorway, Jean said softly, "I'll take her"

Lucien nodded to her in thanks, accepting the offer, which would give him a chance to see to his father and get him settled for the night.

"Say goodnight" said Jean, gesturing back to Thomas to prompt the girl.

She spun around and waved enthusiastically. "Goodnight Grandfather. I'll come back tomorrow"

Thomas smiled at her softly, waving back. "I'll look forward to it"

And then Jean took Li gently by the shoulders, smoothing down the braid she had done for bedtime as she led the girl back towards the stairs to take her to the single room upstairs.

Left alone once more, Lucien looked at his father and lost some of the joviality, leaving in its wake an awkwardness that was difficult to face without anger to mask it. At least in anger he knew the familiar steps and parries. Without it, and after such a tender moment, Lucien was baffled.

Thankfully Thomas was not so reticent, and was staring at the door with longing in his eyes.

"She's a marvel, Lucien"

Lucien collected up the abandoned newspaper without looking at his father, and set it on the sideboard while nodding silently. He gathered Thomas' nightly dose of aspirin and the glass of water and handed them to Thomas, who dutifully drank it down. It seemed a short conversation with Li was enough to mellow him into compliance, just as he was starting to get cabin fever.

Thomas sighed deeply, his thoughts going to a darker, more troubled place, and Lucien braced himself as he so often had to when he and his father were left alone. It was only a matter of time before the conversation went back into murky waters, no matter how lovely the mood had been just mere moments ago.

"If I had known that she would be the outcome of… I never would have…"

Lucien's eyes shot to his father in fury, his brow deeply furrowed. Thomas didn't finish the thought, but they both knew what he had meant to say, and though Thomas looked resolutely at the door – too lost in his own ponderings to read the change in his son – he at least had the good sense not to put into words such a clinical, awful thought. Because they both knew it wasn't strictly true; Thomas may love Li now – may accept her place in the house and welcome her company deep into the night, with her animated stories and curiosity – but he had always judged Lucien's marriage as a mistake, and part of him was surely swayed by his own current circumstances.

There was no way for Thomas to have known what was to come from any of it, but even if he had, Lucien felt insulted for his wife and for his family that their value should be judged only on their outcomes and not on their happiness at the time. _It shouldn't have mattered_ , he wanted to say. _You should have loved them all the same, because I did_. But there was no point in saying it, for it was a way of viewing the world that was diametrically opposed to Thomas' own values, and they were making such positive progress. Lucien thought of what Jean would tell him, and held his tongue instead of lashing out as he had done all those years ago.

Thomas must have realised how ridiculous his musings sounded, for he shook himself back into the present and took a deep breath. "Well anyway… perhaps I wouldn't have judged quite such harshly"

It was a feeble attempt to walk himself back from an unspeakable ledge, but Lucien took it as an olive branch all the same. He was trying very hard not to lambast Thomas for every nasty or cruel thought he gave voice to, or else they would run in the same circles until their last days. But there was always a sticking point he couldn't wrap his head around – a single element that hadn't made any sense to him at all, even taking into account their differences.

"What I still don't understand is… why you had to be so combative at all"

Thomas scoffed and huffed his way deeper into his pillows. "I was not combative"

Lucien very nearly fought the urge to laugh. He gave his father a look from the side of his gaze that would have withered the begonias in Jean's greenhouse. "You can't be serious"

Thomas lost some bluster, but as always would not back down. "I was only speaking my mind" he said, and then his expression turned sorrowful, his mind tangentially circling back to his earlier thought. "I never dreamed it would lead to what it did"

Thomas thought about one of his letters that was never read, asking after his son, begging him to come back and offering to have Mei Lin come to Australia when it was still peace time. Europe raged, but Lucien hadn't been in danger then; the world was on alert but Asia was considered safe. Would Lucien have brought his wife and daughter to Ballarat to keep them safe, if Ballarat had been a welcoming place? He would never know now, for Lucien had never opened the letters and Thomas had been left quite in the dark. It was only now, piece by piece, that he was learning about his son's life during their long estrangement.

Lucien sighed and took a seat in the chair left by Li. He rubbed a hand over his face, scrubbing at his beared, and Thomas was struck by every one of his son's forty years.

"You had to have known that what you said would push me away" he said, leaning his elbows on his knees. The lack of good posture would only annoy his father, which gave Lucien a certain amount of petulant joy.

"Of course I didn't, Lucien" sighed Thomas, rolling his eyes. Ordinarily such an action would never pass muster, but Thomas was getting tired of trying to defend himself ten years and so many hurts later. It was done, and he saw no point in trying to change it, even if his sudden reminder of mortality had dredged up all the regret he felt. "I only meant to make you think – to make you see reason"

Lucien threw his hands forward and his voice pitched high with incredulity. "You cast me out for making the same choices you did!"

"I was angry _because_ you were making the same choices I did!" replied Thomas. "I had hoped you would learn from my mistakes!"

"So the life you lived was a mistake, was it?"

And what he really meant was, _was I a mistake father?_ Because if Thomas could have lived a different life and made different choices - if he could have avoided familial estrangement and distance by finding himself a local woman and having children who could play with their cousins and attend family events without argument, and if Thomas could have reaped the benefits of his wealthy sister's favour and love and been welcomed at their home on holidays - surely that meant he regretted to some degree his marriage, and his pathetic, soft-hearted son as well.

Lucien was quite startled to see tears bloom in his father's eyes and his throat close with emotion, and for a moment he felt terrible for ever accusing him of anything malignant, for it was plainly evident that his accusations had hit a very raw nerve and opened painful wounds never quite healed properly.

"Your mother was the brightest star in my sky, Lucien" he said, voice full of anguish and loss. "And you were the most treasured gift she gave me"

Lucien himself had to look away for a moment, overcome by the honesty and vulnerability that such a confession showed, his father's words soothing some of the ache in his heart. A small voice still questioned it - _if I was such a treasured gift then why did you throw me away like rubbish_ \- but it was a question without an answer, he knew. Thomas had never meant to do to his son what his family had done to him; he only meant to make the best choices for them both. And perhaps part of that was informed by a harsher form of parenting as well, but Lucien was starting to see that his father sending him away to school and his father's rejection of Mei Lin were two entirely unrelated issues. In his heart they were compounding pains which festered on each other, and for years he took each new blow as further proof of his father's distain for him. He had always believed there was a clear line that drew from one to the next, pointing squarely at his father's lack of love. But they were not born of the same catalyst, and Lucien could see in Thomas' countenance that he was sorry to think they had been misconstrued as such.

Lucien still couldn't understand his father's naivety, and knew that he would never see it from Lucien's point of view, and so on this they would have to agree to disagree, and chalk it up to the kinds of difference in opinion and life experience that perhaps all fathers and sons battled.

"You were banished from the family for marrying Mum" said Lucien, steering clear of his own marriage for the moment. "Why haven't you reunited with them now she's gone?"

A dark cloud descended over Thomas' face and he looked positively riotous at the suggestion of reaching out to his family.

"I would not so much as serve those people a cup of tea on a cold day for the way they disrespected your mother"

Lucien looked at him long and hard, pointedly, waiting for the toss of rage to die just enough for Thomas' words to resonate. He waited a few heartbeats, and then a few more, his eyebrows raised and his head tilted in an expression he knew - rather annoyingly - he inherited from Thomas. It would take him a moment – it always did when it came to seeing his own folly – but Lucien knew he would get there eventually, and was full of righteousness at the thought of holding one over him.

At first Thomas didn't look at him, his eyes cast to the other side of the room and unfocussed as he got lost in memories. There was a lot to unpack – a lot of threads they seemed to pull and then leave unattended for another day, which could muddy the waters and make it difficult to answer any single hurt. But when Thomas did finally look at Lucien again the penny seemed to drop, for his brow lost all anger and his eyes seemed to widen almost comically in understanding. He looked at his son like he was truly seeing his for the first time, mouth quite uncharacteristically agape. He measured his own rage against what Lucien must have felt, and in that moment Thomas' regard for him grew beyond his heart's capacity. He was doing what Thomas never could – living next to the very man who had so disrespected his wife. It was any wonder Lucien was regaining so much of his ego so quickly, for every moment he stayed in his father's house he was proving to be the bigger person, and regardless of what they said to each other, if he stayed – if he stuck to his guns and refused to vacate – he would always have the upper hand. It was petty, and driven entirely by pride, but Lucien didn't care. Not even Jean could pry that motivation from him, and if he had to grit his teeth for all eternity to prove his father wrong, like a rock in his shoe he would do it and stay. The outcome was the same, after all.

The shock of it, and Lucien's feeling of righteousness, cast a silence and a truce over the room. No more needed to be said for now, because there was nothing to say; Lucien was here, tending to his father, rebuilding his life, and his half-Chinese daughter was here as well, the next in line to the Blake name and living proof that father and son were too alike for their own good.

Lucien sighed deeply and rolled his eyes to the ceiling. "I never wanted to be you" he said. There was a humourless smile on his face as he spoke, like he was putting into words something he'd always known but never said out loud before. Thomas was startled and a bit wounded, but he didn't speak, instead wondering what Lucien was saying, and why.

"And now I am here" said Lucien. "And I'm seeing your patients, and Doug Ashby has asked me to fill in as the Police Surgeon until you are well enough to be back, and I... here I am living your life"

Thomas nodded, picking at a thread in his blanket. Ah, so that's what he meant. They had so mirrored each other for the longest time, unintentionally making the same choices for much the same reasons. But Lucien never wanted that; had in fact rejected his father and strived to live a life entirely his own. Lucien's spirit was all his mother's, his nature humanitarian though his life had given him skills to the contrary. For all Thomas loved his town and the life it had afforded him, seeing it through his son's eyes he realised its potential to be a prison. And yet Lucien stayed. Whether to prove his father wrong, or make sure he didn't die, or even if it was for Li's benefit, it didn't matter, for Lucien stayed.

"You must hate it" said Thomas, giving him a conciliatory smile, not quite reaching his eyes.

"That's just it" replied Lucien. He looked up and met his father's gaze, both of them watery but stubbornly refusing to cry and concede ground. "I don't hate it nearly as much as I want to"

Thomas' smile deepened, and genuine affection shone through. He could recognise this son. He was learning so much about the man he had become in the intervening years, but under it all was still the boy he recognised, with his mother's eyes and his desire to please. "It's not all bad" said Thomas, sounding like a father for the first time in recent memory.

Lucien nodded, and thought of all the ghosts who weren't nearly as scary in the light of day as he remembered them being. He thought of Jean, dear lovely Jean who was so resolute that he stayed that there was little choice in the matter. He thought of Li, who was already enquiring about school next year, and sneaking into her grandfather's room late at night to tell him funny stories. And Lucien thought of Thomas too; their relationship would never fully recover from the past, but it could become something different in the future. He would be a different grandfather than he was a father – that was already plain to see – and Lucien was doing his best not to feel jealous of that. There was so much potential for a good life here that even Lucien's stubbornness couldn't turn him away from it.

All of these things crossed Lucien's mind as he sat in silence, and it was only his father's soft snores that broke him from his train of thought. Thomas had fallen asleep by the light of the lamp, his body tilted to the side and his hand still reaching out across the blanket to almost touch Lucien's arm. Lucien touched his fingers lightly to his father's hand, and for a moment was content to sit there, listening to his father's snores the way he used to as a boy, taking comfort in the steady rhythm of his breath going in and out, all their troubles forgotten for another day.

 **A/N:** _I gave Li the middle name Zhen because in English it sounds a bit like Gen which could be short for Genevieve, anyway that's not important but I thought you'd like to know._


	14. Chapter 14

_Hello all! Happy New Year, and apologies for such a delay in updating – my goodness it's been a while! Real life is keeping me occupied but I'm still here, very slowly plugging away, and I hope you enjoy!_

~0~

Christmas was Jean's favourite time of the year. A life of church service had taught her the importance of the season, and there was never a busier time for her community, but more than that, Jean absolutely loved the festivities. It was everywhere at once, the lights and the garlands and the drapes of green and red all over the place. Even in the din and the fog of her most potent grief, and even when the war raged on and on, she could always rally at Christmas time. Even when her sons were troublesome or absent she would find unequivocal peace in Midnight Mass and the hymns that seemed to come forth of their own volition, or be comforted by the small army of churchgoing women who were equally dedicated to feeding and clothing the poor and lonely through their bake sales and church fetes. Ballarat was a hive of community activity at Christmas time, so much so that often Jean struggled with the incongruity of it all; how was it that women could slave over a stove during the month of December to feed at clothe the poor beggars that, any other time of year, they turned their noses at?

But no matter, it was done, and nothing Jean may have thought would change the way of things, and people thrived for it regardless. During the war Christmas was always bustling, putting together hampers for men serving overseas and making lunches for widows who had lost husbands and sons through those years. In its aftermath everyone seemed doggedly determined to make the most of it, having been touched so closely by death and therefore relishing the chance of life. Whatever grievances reared their ugly heads for eleven months of the year, near everyone could be asked – or obliged – to forget them for a moment in the festive season. The town would hang garlands of greenery in every shop window and ignore the way they withered in the blast of summery heat. Bows and red tartan would be decked on unwitting children and on the handlebars of prams, and everybody seemed to put just a little more effort into their greetings.

In the weeks leading up to the main day, Jean's mood seemed to lift and her heart felt less heavy, although Christmas day often reminded her of all she had lost and she had to fight the tears that came with her few treasured memories. Every jaunt into town was a chance to smile at the butcher, laugh with the seamstress, run into an old acquaintance and ask if their family were visiting for the holidays. The Salvation Army trumpets would blow their happy tunes on the street, as young people took shelter from the sun under the eaves of the cinema or Her Majesty's, sucking on ice cones. Everyone bemoaned the process of roasting hot meats on Christmas day for a whole table, even as they relished the traditions brought over from England and other places abroad, never really abandoned, the summer heat tempered slightly by Ballarat's natural inclination to remain cool.

And so it was that Lucien Blake had blown back into town at the exact time of year when the town was at its most welcoming, a trick of fate for which Jean felt immensely grateful. Nobody had yet questioned the circumstances of the handsome, exotic Blake son coming back to his father's house with a Chinese child in tow; nobody had yet made the inevitable queries as to Jean's own living arrangements, as they might have done any other time of the year. To live with the good Doctor was one thing – unusual but not unseemly, for they were so far apart in age and both so well regarded in standing, Christopher and Jack coming with her in the beginning, that they managed to avoid any hint of a scandal. She and the good doctor slept on different floors of the house as masters and servants had done for centuries, and people accepted that easily enough because they had seen the way Jean Beazley struggled after her husband's death, and they wanted her to be well. The few sly questions to either of the boys quickly waylaid any further inclination to gossip, as Christopher defended his mother's honour with stony silence, and Jack only grumbled – for the short time he lived there – about the doctor forever being on his back.

But it was the mercy of the season that Lucien and Li had so completely changed the dynamic of the house, and nobody had yet to question if perhaps it was improper, unseemly, uncouth, for Jean to remain in her upstairs bedroom, alone in that fine house while it's Master and Miss slept in the very next rooms.

Jean was able to carry on towards Christmas blissfully ignorant of any such innuendo, for in truth, just having one of Ballarat's sons return – when so many of them did not and such scars still stung sharply – was enough for Ballarat to quiet.

And it was with glee unbecoming of a woman her age that Jean looked forward to showing young Li all that Australian Christmas had to offer. The heat was not that different from what she remembered of Singapore, though her orphanage further north in China felt the seasons more readily. But the child's memories of Western traditions so lived by her parents at the time of her birth had faded. Some tunes felt familiar – one she even remembered her father playing for her on the piano – but Li had barely been older than a baby when Singapore fell, and not able to comprehend the reason for the season.

And so Jean delighted in teaching her, and though it was completely beyond her station, she was practically giddy over the prospect of sharing it once again with a family.

Oh, it was not her own family, and yes her heart still longed for the days when her boys would come running into her bedroom before dawn, waking her and Christopher, demanding they all rise and open the meagre few gifts they could afford. Shiny new boots, or wooden toy bi-planes, or one year a baby goat that was their very own pet (and rather a handy mower of grass around the house as well). But it was a family nonetheless, and one still healing around the fragile few stitches that had fused its scars back together.

Thomas Blake was still bedridden, and under the careful eye of both his son and the district nurse. Both made sure he started exercising, and doing arm raises and leg stretches to keep his body limber. His chest pained him, but no more than was to be expected, and he had taken to walking through the house with a cane. It wasn't an easy sight to take, seeing such a proud and strong man – a pillar of his community – looking older than his years and frail. But he was a pragmatist before all that, and after a day he accepted the cane as a necessity for his own mobility. Jean breathed a sigh of relief. It was one less argument for him and Lucien to have, and one less thing for her to have to mediate.

And Lucien was… well, he was Lucien. Jean was still trying to figure out the dashing younger doctor. They had struck up a rather close comradery very quickly, forged in the familiar fires of emergency and quick action. Brought together less by the things they shared and more by common goals; to care for Thomas, to look after Li, to navigate the future Lucien would carve for himself in Ballarat. For it was clear he would stay in Ballarat, even if he hadn't quite admitted it yet. Doug Ashby was singing his praises, and though Jean did not fully respect the policeman, she knew he was considered firm yet fair. If he believed Lucien was doing a fine job as police surgeon, then offers at the hospital may soon follow, provided Thomas took back his practice as he was inclined to do.

And Lucien still doggedly refused to be treated as a Master of the house, which left Jean to treat him – much to her chagrin and with a sense of overstepping – as more of a strange friend. She became a trusted council, who could help him along the way even as he refused at every step to act as most others did or settle back into small town thinking. She was at once intrigued and infuriated by him. His arrogance, now that the need to flee was gone, knew no bounds; his pomposity in walking around as though he knew best chaffed against every blister and bruise Jean had suffered to forge the life for herself that he now saw.

Jean knew precisely why Margaret Fuller looked down her nose at Li in the street; because Maggie, as she was once known, had watched her much wealthier husband get on the same bus that took Jean's Christopher, to head to the same front in south-east Asia, and just like Christopher, Graham Fuller did not come home. Maggie, whose life for a short while looked to be so much better than that of her parents, was forced to take a job as a secretary at an accounting firm to pay the bills now that her husband was dead, and in Li she must have seen every enemy soldier that had robbed her of the life Graham so promised her when he took her off the farm. It was unfair, but Jean understood it, and she paid it no mind when Li accompanied her into town, making sure the girl knew she was respected by those who mattered. Jean knew why Patrick Tyneman called in to visit Thomas and wish him well, and why no less than four times in the conversation he mentioned getting Lucien a club membership. Lucien brushed him away, but still he persisted, and she understood that too. Jean knew why the people in town scoffed at Lucien's unkempt beard and tattered clothes no matter how uncharitable it may be. The war was not so very long ago; people didn't want to be reminded of the poverty wrought and the wreckage it left behind in the faces of other nameless men who walked around with a scruffy beard and no shoes, a soulless look in their eyes.

Jean knew so much, and understood the machinations of Ballarat better than anyone, so as much Lucien – with his bright eyes, boisterous demeanour, and booming opinions – may want to rally against it, she always found herself fighting a smile, even as she snapped at him to mind his manners, respect people, accept the life he was settling in to. _Never mind what other people are doing_ , she used to tell her boys, _you just pay attention to what you're doing, and how you treat people._

Some days it felt as though she had regressed, and was espousing the same lessons all over again.

And yet still, infuriatingly often, the man managed to turn her head. His laugh would startle her as he read the paper, bringing a smile to her face before she could stop it. The brush of his hand against her back, her arm, her shoulder, happened so frequently it was nearly indecent, though of course he didn't mean it that way. The twinkle in his eye was becoming a near-daily occurrence, replacing that look like a horse about to bolt. As the week drew on – as Christmas came closer and December made her mark in warmer weather and drier winds – Lucien Blake got further under her skin, and Jean feared that come Sunday again, she would have to confess to the same sins that dogged her at her last confession. How was it, she wondered, that her heart could miss and long for her Christopher as sharply as is did the day she got the telegram, while at the same time her head turn so frequently to seek out a man she had barely known ten days? It didn't seem fair; it certainly didn't have a solution.

Lucien walked in one evening about a week after Thomas' heart attack, and Jean's breath just about caught in her throat. While he had trimmed back his beard and hair as best he could manage himself, he hadn't quite gotten around to seeing a barber in town to have it properly shaped and styled and made neat again. Jean knew what he looked like when it was – had seen the pictures that he kept under his bed – but suddenly before her was a Lucien Blake who looked every bit the debonair doctor, and she tried very hard to hide her blush. He was everything that her young and naïve heart had longed for before it fell in love with Christopher Beazley; worldly and well-travelled, multilingual and cultured, his education the best money could buy and his arrogance a fitting match for it. In Lucien, Jean could see all her girlhood fantasies of an exciting life painted in broad strokes, and it set her cheeks blazing, for she knew the reality was so different. She never once wished for anyone other than Christopher from the day she met him – her husband had been her true love, and she missed him and ached for him every day. But a remembered fantasy was very different from love, and Lucien was that girlish whimsy brought to sudden life.

 _I wonder what would have happened if we'd met earlier_ , she thought to herself, and then promptly dismissed it. Her older brothers might have crossed paths with Lucien had he stayed in Ballarat through teenhood, but he was away at school and so they never had that chance. And anyway, she had loved Christopher too deeply – had dedicated her entire being to him so willingly – that wishing for something to be different would be an insult to his memory.

Life had not been kind to Jean in many ways, but she was not so battered that she had lost the tiny spark inside, of the young girl with big dreams whose only understanding of the wider world was what she read in books. A trip into Melbourne had been the most exotic travel plans in her childhood, let alone the places that Lucien Blake had seen and lived. How was it that such a travelled gentleman could sit so easily and comfortably in her parlour; how could anyone who had been on an aeroplane want to help her wash the dishes at night?

It wasn't fair, she decided – then and there, she made up her mind that it wasn't fair to either of them for her to stay in that house.

From where she sat at the dining room table Jean took glances at Lucien's back. He was seated on the lounge room couch, newspaper open, one leg crossed casually over the other. He was also wearing a brand new tailored suit. It was a dark grey pinstripe, and though he had shed the jacket when he got home, he still wore the matching vest with slacks, white shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows in concession to the heat. With his fresh haircut and pomade, beard trimmed to frame what she already considered to be a handsome face, Lucien Blake was, quite frankly, one giant distraction.

It was a blessing he chose to take a seat with his back to her, for he would no doubt have caught her taking a look at him too often, the mending in front of her near forgotten. It was equally a blessing that Li was already in bed, for the girl was observant enough to comment on it should she notice.

After close to an hour, and with her mending practically abandoned, Jean succumbed to the most potent, most terrifying thought that had settled in her mind not long after her eyes had wandered to Lucien's back.

She couldn't stay here. Not if he was truly taking on this mantle, not if he was a handsome, eligible bachelor, looking the way he did when he came home, not even if she reminded herself daily of her husband's sacrifice, could Jean continue to live in this house.

The sinful thoughts – the what-ifs and dreams that came knocking around her mind in those quiet and uninterrupted moments – were brought to the fore with such alarming clarity that just being in the same room as him was causing her heart to pull in two different directions.

 _Neither of you are yet too old_ , said a sinister little voice in her head, which sounded suspiciously like her mother and every women in town who had comforted her immense loss with a paltry _well at least you're still young_. To stay would be to tempt fate. Maybe not now; not at Christmas time when the world was a little brighter. But Christmas didn't last forever. It would then be the school holidays, with people milling in town looking for something to do. It would be February, and the entire rest of the year; it would be the oppressive Ballarat winter again soon enough, and nothing warmed the hearth and home quite like scandal, whether it was real or imagined.

Jean and Lucien were both still young enough to make new lives, but Jean didn't want a new life; she was still reeling after all that life had thrown her way, and she knew for a fact that Lucien was too. Thomas Blake had opened his door to her when options had seemed dire, and she would be forever grateful; he had kept her on even with all the troubles Jack brought, and for that she could not repay him. But she would not darken his doorway with scandal about his son, and she would not dishonour Christopher by continuing to live next to the only man since who had driven her to such distraction.

Jean stood from the table and walked over to Lucien. She paid no attention to her abandoned things, and came to stand by the arm of the couch where he sat.

He looked up at her with a smile – his face was lighter in recent days, since the risk to his father's health had started to diminish. His eyes were welcoming when they met hers.

"Jean" he said in greeting, and the soft, deep timbre of his voice confirmed what she already knew to be true.

"Might I have a word?" she asked.

It was far too ceremonial for Lucien, and she knew it, but it felt appropriate to approach such a thing with this level of formality. She should really take it up with Thomas first, as his employee, but he was still not well. To lay such a burden at his feet would be unfair, and would leave Lucien in a lurch, which she equally didn't want to do.

"Of course" said Lucien, and he folded away his paper and set it aside, bringing all his attention to her. He was sitting enough to one side of the couch that there was room for another, and though common sense told her she really ought to take a seat in one of the armchairs, Jean barely considered it when she folded herself neatly into the other end of the couch. She sat as far away as physically possible, and angled towards him, her hands neatly in her lap.

"I wonder if I should look for alternative arrangements" she said. She didn't look in his eyes, to save her pride and her dignity. And she wondered what he must be thinking.

"What do you mean?" he asked, brow furrowed deeply as if she were speaking another language. She risked a glance up at him and confirmed her suspicions; he was worried for her, and curious, but nowhere in his countenance was a sense of formality. He was turned to her the way he might speak to a friend, and she was reminded that they were – new and tentative, but it was a friendship that was forged between them all the same. They escaped many of the formalities of her position by virtue of the fact that it was technically Thomas who hired her. And Lucien hardly paid attention to her station anyway, seeing her more as a permanent fixture of the home than a housekeeper.

Still, despite all that, Jean forged ahead, dropping her eyes back to her lap. She was proud of herself for not fidgeting. "With you and Li living back here, it doesn't seem proper that I-"

"No Jean, don't even finish that thought" said Lucien, and this time his voice was firm.

She looked up once more, and found him staring just about at her knee, his eyes not quite focussed yet somehow intensely honed in on her. He wasn't looking at her, didn't meet her gaze, and yet somehow she was rooted to the spot by the frankness of his tone and the fire in his eyes. "This is your home too" he said.

There was an edge in him that by now felt familiar, but the presence of it surprised her, for before it was only ever directed at others – sometimes his father, when the two of them were so close to breaking the ice; sometimes Li, when Jean spoke of the girl's future. It was a burning in Lucien that Jean couldn't quite place and yet seemed deeply important, and she wanted so desperately to help him find the words to articulate it.

She nodded at him, wary and gentle. "It has been my home, yes, but-"

"We need you here, Jean" said Lucien, and at once his eyes found hers, that fire cutting straight to her belly. She couldn't breathe for the way it made her feel, like he was anchoring her through the floor from where she sat, and any gesture would break the spell. "You are quite surely the glue that holds us together"

Jean truly didn't know what to say to that. It was honest enough – she knew it to be at least partially true, for she had done her mightiest to keep this family together in the days since Lucien and Li returned. But to hear Lucien confess it with such gusto, and such earnestness… it knocked the wind from her lungs. He was pleading with her, she realised. His eyes were glassy in the corners, and his jaw was set tight, and he was begging her to stay. For what reasons, she couldn't be sure, for Thomas' recovery was straightforward enough, and there were many other women in town that would make a fine housekeeper. Jean may even keep her job, just not live in the house, and that would make for a fine compromise.

But Lucien Blake was near on bursting into tears at the thought of her leaving, and the gesture was so sincerely touching that Jean's resolve crumbled in an instant.

"And besides" he continued, looking away again to regain his composure, "you wouldn't leave me to the wrath of my father, all alone, would you?"

She laughed a little in concession, not yet willing to give up the ground she knew was inevitably his.

"You have Li" she said, her face smiling and her eyes soft. The girl had been a balm on weary hearts these past few days, keeping her grandfather occupied with stories and practising her reading out loud, and the house was so much lighter because of it.

"Yes!" said Lucien, throwing one hand forward, animated and excited all at once. "Exactly, Li! And surely a bachelor living with a cripple-" She scoffed at him, scolding but amused. "- cannot be counted on to see to a young girl all alone? She needs a woman around"

It was a savage ploy, but it was working. What he was trying to say, in not so many words, was that he wanted her around too. For as much as she had become accustomed to having company her own age and temperament in the house – as much as Jean might think herself alone in the comfort of his company – Lucien had quite come to rely on her too. Often he would return from town with a question about a person or a family, a query about the best way to approach a topic, or a scathing remark that needed context. Usually he was set firmly in his place. But there was no denying that the bond they were forming was not that of employer and employee, but of great friends. Jean had not considered, as she sat and berated herself for her thoughts, that the reciprocity of their friendship would be a reason to stay. It had seemed like an excellent reason to leave.

But would she deny a man someone he cared about? Lucien, who had been abandoned and shut out so many times in his forty years, who had so few people in this town that he knew and trusted; Lucien, who was still finding his feet. Would she deny him the help he so desperately needed and the shoulder to lean on that she had come to be, simply because she couldn't keep her thoughts at bay? It seemed an overreaction. Her fancies were just girlish whims. His grief was very real. And he was a kindred spirit in so many ways; understood her like few others did, which was both alarming and wonderful.

And there was Li to consider in all sincerity, for Jean's own priest had counselled that the girl would need a guiding hand and a mother figure to help her settle into her new life. There was the holiday season to teach her about, and then they had to turn their minds to her schooling. She could be brought up to scratch with discipline and hard work over the summer, and attend a local school the following February. Perhaps, depending on what Lucien's answer pertaining to the club may be, Patrick Tyneman might help to sway the board at Clarendon College for Li's admission, or even the Grammar school if Lucien was less inclined towards the regimen of Presbyterianism. (Jean had already surmised he was a rather faithless man, and therefore enrolment at Loreto seemed unlikely, but surely the prestige of one of the better private schools in town could not be completely ignored; Thomas would see to that).

Yes, it seemed her decision to leave had been hasty, for there were many reasons to stay, not least of which was… she wanted to. Despite the temptation, and the head turning, and the way he grated against her sensibilities, Jean liked it in this house and she liked it even better since Lucien and Li arrived. It would not be easy, she knew that, but nothing worth doing ever was. And her melancholy would hardly have a place to land if she was battling the two of them and Thomas' demands as well.

Lucien still required an answer, and was not content to wait for her.

"If I thought for one minute that my coming back would force you out-" he said, his brow furrowed once more in a troubled look.

"No" she said, one hand up to stop him, or silence him, or both. "No, not at all. I suppose I just thought…" She couldn't possibly put voice to it, so instead she finished lamely, "Well I don't know what I thought"

He worded didn't seem to have fooled Lucien. He was watching her with a knowing look on his face that concerned her, for he was far more astute than most men, and far too cavalier to be deferential to her feelings on the matter. It was a blessing that he let her have her lie, and didn't question her further on it.

"Jean" he said again, his voice low and intimate the way it was when he was confessing something deeply personal to her. She leaned in a little bit out of habit. "I will do whatever it takes to make you comfortable to stay"

Her breath hitched and she looked him straight in the eye.

"I mean that"

Jean nodded just a little, a smile tugging at the corners of her lips, although she was far too wound up to feel joy for long. His words had struck at something deep in her core, shaking her and rebuilding her faith in the same breath. It was overwhelming.

"I know you do" she said softly. Then she shook the feeling – and him – away, before it dragged her under. "Forget I mentioned it"

His fingers on the back of her hand nearly caused her to jump out of her skin. "Are you sure?"

"Of course. I was just… having a moment"

Jean stood, and flattened out her skirt to avoid looking at him where he still sat, angled near where she had been, his eyes searching for her and following her as she politely placed distance between them.

"Thank you, Lucien, for your kind words" said Jean. She wanted so much to go back to how they were before she had let her silly mouth run.

"I meant them" he said in return, still watching her like she was a skittish cat. It was a funny turnabout of manner that, at any other time, she would have laughed with him about. But she didn't laugh, only nodded her understanding, pushing down the well of emotion that his words brought.

"I'm going to turn in. Do you need anything?"

"No Jean, thank you, I'm fine"

He was indulging her, which was mortifying. She just wanted to escape with her dignity.

"Very well, then, goodnight"

She didn't wait for his reply, although she heard his soft echo of _goodnight_ as she turned her back and left the room. She didn't give him an opportunity to call her back, and in the morning, when she came downstairs, her mending was exactly where she left it on the dining room table, strewn about with little care, her sewing box hanging open. Li was under strict instructions not to touch it, for it must be left exactly as it was – it was very special and required great care, she recited, no doubt told by her father – and that was perhaps the most humiliating thing about the whole evening in Jean's mind. It was an agony to think that Lucien must now see her as a fool, but at least in her shame she could hide, and in her care for Li she could rejoice, and in Christmas she could distract herself from a thoroughly distracting man.

The Lord had tested her in so many ways in her life, but this one was rather new.


	15. Chapter 15

_Thank you so much for my feedback, I so appreciate it! I'll be trying to incorporate some of their interactions and mannerisms from the show as I go, while being mindful of my own timeline, so hopefully that works out._

 _Enjoy!_

~0~

Jean was thoroughly convinced that she did not understand a single thing about the man stood before her. If she did – if she knew him even half as well as she thought she did or was as close to him as she felt they had become these past few weeks – she would not be caught so decisively between amusement and outrage at the gift in her lap.

It was Christmas day, finally, after weeks of preparation and days of organising the roast and wrapping gifts and decorating the tree with Li and singing carols together. The house had woken to Lucien's gentle playing on the piano; Jean rather suspected he hadn't slept much, and was chasing away demons that might wake him in the night and disturb them all, but he was cheerful enough when Li came running down the stairs crying, _did he come, did he come? What's under the tree?_ and that's all any of them could ask for.

The concept of Santa Clause had delighted the girl to no end, the promise of gifts under the tree a real treat to a child who had lived so long in poverty. They allowed her to open one gift first thing, leaving the others for a more hospitable time. Jean and Lucien sang along merrily to Christmas standards as she prepared breakfast and he twinkled on the ivories – not quite a duet, or anything so intimate, but he would chose keys he knew she could sing and harmonise with her occasionally, and it felt rather familiar all the same. Most charming was, aside from the odd ditty he tried to remember and then abandon, Lucien stuck to playing all the old hymns of their childhood; an odd choice, she thought, for such a Godless man, but he must have liked them all the same for he kept at it for hours, even after she and Thomas departed for morning Mass leaving Lucien and Li at home for a few hours.

Earlier in the month, Thomas had tasked Jean with collecting some of the gifts he wanted to bestow, but even he had his secrets; trips into town where he gingerly led himself to stores and emerged with paper bags he refused to open to her curious eyes. He was always driven into town, wobbling on his stick when he walked, but everyone was so pleased to see their good doctor up and about that there were plenty of eyes on him at all times to keep him upright. Still, no matter how many people he stopped to speak to along the way, she never got a glimpse inside his brown paper bags, which was mildly infuriating. Jean was a natural sticky-beak, and always had been, she couldn't help it. It was killing her not to know what Thomas had brought them all (for she knew, without a doubt, that he had also got her a gift, as was his custom every year).

But Lucien. Lucien had been the biggest enigma. There was little Thomas could do to shock her in any way, set as he was in tradition and his own ways of doing things for so long and with such firmness of spirit that he seemed like an old oak tree – tall and proud and always just _there_. If the heart attack had done anything at all, it certainly hadn't withered Thomas' staid and proper person one jot, much to Lucien's chagrin. And Li looked upon the whole holiday season with a sense of wonder and awe, her eyes constantly alight with joy; the girl constantly surprised them each day, but always in the most lovely of ways. Her reading improved enormously, as did her writing and arithmetic under Lucien's guidance, and she seemed to pick up all the habits and manners that Jean would expect from a girl her age. Thomas pulled her into line, using his considerable influence to ensure the house ran as he saw fit and proper, which allowed Lucien the freedom to parent her. Oh yes, they were always mindful not to run Li with an iron fist. But even protective Lucien saw the benefit in instilling a strict way of things, so that if Li was to learn sewing by Jean's side, or oversee the cooking of each dinner with curiosity, or even learn the various plants in the garden, it was with a mind to formulating a cultivated young lady. Li would need to live in this town too, and she already looked different from the other children, and sounded different, and she had seen things in her short life that most other children couldn't even dream about in ghost stories. If they were ever strict with her, it was only to teach her how to carry herself through a world that may not always be as loving as her father, or as forgiving as her grandfather.

And so Thomas and Li continued on in a way wholly expected, given the circumstances. But it was Lucien that set Jean's teeth on edge more often than she cared to admit, vacillating wildly between endearing and infuriating. Jean and Lucien had lived alongside each other for almost exactly a month now, each day spent solving puzzles of the most mundane nature, about his father's recovery, about Li's schoolwork catch-up, about their dinner plans and Jean's errands to run; who would be using the car that day if Lucien was needed at the morgue, and who would take the accounts to the post office if Jean was busy in the garden. All the tiny and insignificant machinations that made the household run smoothly had been battled together as a united front all of December, and though he exasperated her to no end – clouds of melancholy overcoming him at the most random times, or a scathing remark about Ballarat always close to the surface – she had quickly come to think of the two of them as a formidable team.

It was not usual to get to know someone so quickly and so deeply in such a short amount of time, she thought, if the days were spent so long together. It rather reminded Jean of the early days of her marriage. She and Christopher had no money for any sort of honeymoon, but they had holed away on their new farm, in their small room, in each other's arms, and for days the entire world left them alone in deference to their nuptials. They did the bare minimum of chores required, and spent the entire rest of their time revelling in the fresh and beautiful reality of all their future days together, a little one on the way already. Jean had learned more about her new husband in those precious few days than in the near eighteen months she had known him previous, and even now – even after she had lost so much that had been promised her – it was one of the few memories that did not bring her complete sorrow. She could only remember the laughter, the freedom to indulge in their baser instincts without fear of repercussions, the many things they talked about now that they were husband and wife, the future they dreamed up as they caressed her still-flat belly, naked on their bed. Such a short period of time left such a deep imprint on her soul, and so it was not unusual to think of two people becoming so close when they lived side by side in every waking moment.

The past weeks with Lucien felt remarkably and embarrassingly similar. True, he had regular enough work to keep the practice afloat in his father's absence, and was called out to the occasional dead body with the police. And Thomas was still around and getting back on his feet, picking up slack slowly to keep his mind occupied. Li was not in school, and her presence helped them all too. But Lucien was Jean's right hand, her great help, her ally in these new and exciting days moving forward. Since dismissing the thought of her leaving, he had redoubled his efforts to make her feel like this home was her own, that she possessed the space. Or maybe that was just his way, warm and inviting to everyone. Either way, she became closer to him as a colleague and a friend than she had to anyone else besides her husband, and it was wonderful, and it was terrifying.

But the gift in her hands was truly testing her resolve.

"It's a saucepan", she said, one eyebrow up and her eyes aflame with derision. Jean flipped open the box on her lap a little more and found, "It's several saucepans"

Lucien's enthusiasm did not dampen with Jean's reaction; he didn't even notice Thomas sitting behind his shoulder trying valiantly to swallow a smirk.

"I was assured by the sales assistant that Revere Ware is the most favourable brand in America at the moment", said Lucien. He said it with such pride; everyone loved American things, since the war, even if he didn't necessarily subscribe to that himself; Jean must see the value in American-made cookware, being so often in the kitchen, and if the shop lady said it was the top of the line it must be true, for Lucien had no idea about such things.

Any thought Jean had that he might see her as an equal was shattered with the very real understanding that his gift placed her firmly back where she belonged. Even if it was somewhat thoughtful, and quite useful, at least in the long run. Jean's saucepans did just fine, thank you very much, but she was not one to look a gift horse in the mouth when he had gone to such trouble to find her a gift she would no doubt use.

Pushing down the sting to her pride and the rising of her hackles, Jean gave Lucien a tight smile. She willed herself to be grateful, and it almost worked.

"Thank you", she said, stiffly closing the box up again. "They're very… practical"

Lucien didn't notice her tone. Thomas, near apoplectic with holding in his laughter, was not inclined to educate him either.

"You are such a pragmatic person, Jean," said Lucien with a gentile smile, "It's difficult to buy for you"

He must have thought himself rather cute, showing how well he knew her by talking about her inner nature, about her lack of lavishness in both life and manner. And that, too, rubbed her the wrong way, for it was clear he had failed to understand something so deeply fundamental to Jean that it was impossible to knock out. Her practicality was forged in the fires of poverty and necessity, not a want to be frugal. Were she bred in this kind of home from birth, sent to the best schools and expected to go to university from a tender young age, it may have been different. Or it may not; given how many of the educated women in town were still expected to be wives and mothers first. But either way they would never know because Jean was a farm girl at heart, and the gift – yes, one she would at least get use out of – felt like a timely reminder to her not to get too comfortable living above her means and station. She was given near-free reign in this house, to run its schedule and its men as she saw fit, and there seemed an unspoken truce that anything pertaining to the goings-on within these four walls needed Jean's explicit sign-off. But that was not strictly true. This was the Blake house. It was their name emblazoned on the front gate, their medical practice in the front room, their legacy to bestow upon Li, and it was for their own good that Jean was employed at all. To keep a house worth of the name.

It was often that Jean felt warned by grace to mind her manners; it seemed that every time she thought to raise her head just a little too high, fate would intervene. It always did. And it always stung like a belt across the backs of her legs.

At least saucepans were a burden she could bear as she learned her lesson. There were many others she couldn't.

"Pass us the next gift, little elf", called Thomas, directing Li to fetch a parcel from under the tree that he knew to be for her. They watched with joy as she ripped the paper off a stack of brand new Enid Blyton books that were all her own, and laughed when she squealed in delight, jumping around the room and clutching them to her chest. Jean placed the offending box on the floor beside the armchair and didn't give it another thought, instead distracting herself with the rest of the day and the joy of this family that she was borrowing on for size.

~0~

It was late when there came a soft rap of knuckles on the frosted glass window of her bedroom door. Jean was standing by the window that overlooked the back garden, wide and grand as it was, giving her a lovely view of her domain. Thomas had gifted her this room to do with as she wished, and Jean had filled it with the few things she could salvage from the farm. The bed and small wardrobe had already been here, but the dresser and a small trunk and a standing mirror were hers, filled to the brim with her memories. This bedroom was Jean's refuge from whatever was plaguing her in the outside world, and until tonight Lucien had not step foot near it, except to occasionally wish her goodnight as he disappeared into his own room next door.

But she could tell by the timbre of the knock and the faint outline of the silhouette outside that it was him at the door now, invading the space he had wordlessly agreed never to approach.

"Yes?" she called, her voice a little higher and reedier than she intended. Her thoughts had drifted, now that the house was quiet, back to the melancholy the day often brought. All of the gifts and the singing, the morning Mass and the delicious hot food, could not distract Jean from her bone-deep loneliness. She missed her husband. She missed her sons; Christopher was still at Duntroon and couldn't make it home even if he wanted to, and Jack's last letter had been a brief writ to say he was fine and to wish her a happy holidays. No mention of him coming, no word if he would be allowed away from Melbourne to visit, and so she hadn't let her hopes get too high. This Christmas had been a little better than some, but as she stood by the window with her arms crossed around herself, Jean could almost imagine they were Christopher's, just as he always used to, the two of them standing and staring out the kitchen window of their ramshackle old farmhouse and deeply happy. And still, despite her best efforts to be grateful, those bloody saucepans also played on her mind as a slap in the face, and so her voice was high and thin because she was caught in the middle of her gloominess and quite unprepared for facing him.

The door opened and Lucien's sheepish face appeared. She wanted to be cross with him for interrupting her brooding, but instead she was curious. He stepped just inside the door, one hand in his pocket, and Jean frowned as she tried to work out why he was here.

"Jean, I am sorry if I offended you", he said. "With the saucepans"

She sighed to herself and turned to him fully. She didn't uncross her arms but her shoulders did loosen and her face lost its frown. She'd been sullen all evening about it as she pointedly put them away in her cupboards, much more than Lucien deserved, and she was sorry for it now.

"I know you didn't mean any harm by it", she said, and that was true. He wasn't malicious by nature. And she had obviously needed to learn another lesson sent by God about her pride; always it was about pride, her most pervasive deadly sin. If she was worked up it was only because it wasn't _right_ ; it wasn't proper, or the done thing, for an employer to joke and laugh and make fun of the help. Which was not at all his intention, but Jean felt that way all the same, seeing his smug smile over the top of a box of cooking utilities that afternoon.

But Lucien didn't see her as 'the help'. Yes he relied on her to keep the house and probably didn't know the first thing about cooking a decent roast, but he and Li had got by just fine by themselves for quite a long time, and Jean rather suspected Lucien could oversee this house without a housekeeper if he really put his mind to it and didn't get so distracted all the time. There was laziness there too, yes, but he had been born to a certain privilege which made it somewhat expected; the Army taught him how to darn socks, he would have well learned everything else in time. But still, he didn't mean to take Jean for granted, and she knew he saw her more as a friend despite her wage, and if she was testy with him it was because she expected everyone to put their best foot forward always, despite what may be going on behind the veil. Her mother-in-law always cautioned her against being too prideful, but Jean didn't think there was anything wrong with high standards. Sometimes she found it hard to forgive Lucien when he didn't meet them, and in those moments she would remind herself of the miracle of him being here at all, whole and healthy and _trying_.

"I value your position here, you must know that", he said, his eyes beseeching.

It was another sting she didn't expect. A reminder that no matter how he behaved with her, he knew her place as well as she did. It was another reminder of the damned saucepans. But again, she told herself, he was trying to reach out this Christmas Night, not intending to be cruel. If she had put her hopes too high about him, that too was her own fault.

"It's fine, Lucien. Please don't worry"

But he didn't seem to hear her.

"I actually have another gift for you-"

"Oh no, don't be si-"

"But it didn't seem appropriate to give it to you earlier"

Her mind at once went to the darkest places. The tiny well of intrigue that she so quickly buried weeks ago bubbled deep within her. What gift could he possibly give her that couldn't be shared in front of his father and daughter, and why was he so uncomfortable in front of her now? _He can't mean… what does he mean?_ Her heart railed against it; she had succeeded in burying any of the tumult that had risen that night, and didn't wish to revisit it again; there had never been any hint from him that he wished more from her than a friend, and she was glad for that. She was still mourning Christopher so deeply it felt like it would never end, and that was no state to be thinking of… anything else. But Lucien's face was only a mask of awkwardness and uncertainty, like a little boy lost, so no, she quieted those thoughts and let him finish. He didn't look like a man harbouring salacious intent; he looked like a boy unsure how to ask her to the town dance. It was quite endearing. Jean's face was open, her eyes wide and curious, a feeling of anticipation and amusement rolling through her. She felt sixteen again, for all the fun reasons.

He pulled his hand from inside his pocket, and without meeting her eye, handed it to her. Between two fingers was a small flat box with a ribbon around it. It was the kind of box that could only hold something special – a trinket valued not by size but by enormity – and Jean at once straightened her spine and blinked twice in anticipation of receiving it.

"Well, go on", he said. He was so exuberant some days, and full of joyous, boundless energy. Gone were the weary days of struggle and torment, of carrying his burdens alone. He still struggled to sleep through the nights often, but Lucien was lighter and freer than she'd ever known him to be, and she had to wonder if that's what Genevieve Blake had been like, for Thomas was surely the exact opposite. "Open it" he said, nudging his hand forward.

She smiled at him, giving him a brief and subtle look – _alright, alright, patience_ , it implored, even as her fingers grasped one of the ribbon ends and pulled off the paper.

Jean's breath caught in her throat as she flipped open the small ivory jewellery case to reveal a beautiful turquoise-stoned brooch. It glittered by the light of her lamp; Jean could feel Lucien's eyes on her even as she stared at the gift, running one finger delicately over the small silver catches that held the stones in place, and the delicate little diamonds between them.

"Lucien", she said on a breath, "thank you"

Jean looked up and met his eyes, kind and thankful as they were.

"It's beautiful"

He smiled at her, a tight little smile, giving away the depth of his happiness and also the measure of his nervousness. She understood now why he had been that way – not because he was trying anything on with her, but because he wouldn't want this misconstrued. It was a glorious gift, possibly more than was appropriate, but it was so very Lucien to not care for tradition and give it to her anyway. There was no agenda here, except that a tiny uncharitable thought came to Jean's mind that she could not let go.

"Was it hers?" she asked, thinking of the playful smile of the woman in the photograph under his bed; thinking that this would be the kind of gift to give a wife and not a housekeeper.

"Ah, no", he replied, looking down at the brooch. "No, it was… something I bought a long time ago. For a moment just like this"

It was a half-truth, Jean knew, for surely Lucien had kept his wife in mind when buying this gift, whenever that had been. But she let him have it, because if it hadn't been given to Mrs Blake then he wasn't being dishonest with Jean; it was hers, unblemished, and she would accept it graciously.

"You don't want to keep it for Li?" she asked him.

"There will be other gifts for Li, I'm sure", said Lucien, waving his hand a little in the air to dismiss the thought of giving a girl that young something so grown-up and refined. "But Jean… you have been a marvel since the day we arrived and… well… I wanted to say thank you"

He didn't mean to be forward, at least she didn't think he did. Lucien had given her no other indications that his intentions were anything other than honest care, and gratitude. He was a naturally ebullient man, tactile and forthright in his affections, but he was that way with everyone he cared about and not just Jean. There was never any other intent in his touch or in his looks, and so she didn't let herself get caught up in her own scandalous thoughts, in fact, his innocence seemed to quiet them. He was giving her a lovely and precious gift as a way of showing her – on her own terms, for the brooch was indeed something she could wear to church or town hall meetings – that his esteem for her was immense.

Jean looked back down at the brooch and traced it once more, then closed the little box to keep it safe. She held it in the palm of one hand, and placed the other palm on top as if patting it down, a sign of her respect for her gift.

"It's beautiful, Lucien. Thank you"

He smiled at her again, his nervousness gone, his joy and care for her in its place.

"I'm glad you like it", he said, and his words sat over her like a warm blanket, even as they quietly bid each other a soft _M_ _erry Christmas_ and he left her room once more. He even remembered to close her door behind him, and that made Jean smile with great fondness at the space he had just occupied.

She opened the top drawer of her dresser and placed the little cream box in the corner, right next to the box that housed her engagement ring. She had very few pieces that were genuine keepsakes, as most of what she could afford was costume jewellery, but her new brooch was special. She intended to treat it as such, and already made up her mind that she would show it off next Sunday at church, and let the gossips do as they would.


	16. Chapter 16

_I've become that writer who promises to update every week and then disappears for six months, and I can only apologise. Anyway, I hope you enjoy!_

~0~

 _Three Months Later_

~0~

"Oh that man" she huffed, and threw her tea towel on the table with more force than was strictly necessary. Jean stood there in the kitchen and thrust her hands on her hips, blowing a single wispy hair from her face; she was throwing a tantrum, and she was fully aware of it, but her true feelings could not be contained as she stalked back into her domain and let off some steam. Jean could throw quite a good tantrum when the occasion called for it; Christopher used to tease her mercilessly for it, though of course his fits were far more frequent and explosive than hers. Agonizingly so, if she thought too hard about it. But on this fine autumn day it was her turn, and Jean relished the chance.

Jean knew her place and held her tongue and tried not to step out of line, but sometimes all she could do to cope was remove herself from the room and throw a pink fit. Now that the house was settled into its new foundations, she found the urge to do so taking over more and more frequently. But she nearly jumped out of her skin when she heard a chuckle come from one of the chairs in the living room. At once her frustration gave way to mortification, as Thomas' kindly face peered around the corner from where he was hidden from her view. He had the paper in hand and a look on his face like the cat that got the canary. Jean could feel her cheeks burn brightly as she straightened her spine and met his gaze.

"Doctor", she said. "I didn't see you there"

"Yes, I'm sure", he replied, and then resettled himself back in his chair, continuing to read his paper.

Jean thought that might be the end of it, but fortune was not so kind.

"What is it you always say to me, Jean? That patience is a virtue?"

Jean turned her eyes heavenward and begged for it, preferably in spades. She and Thomas did not make jokes, per se, and they maintained a strict professional boundary that had always been the hallmark of their working relationship. But they had struck a new accord since the New Year, partly because of the role Jean had played in getting him in good health again, but mostly in light of them both learning how to best live in the same house as one Lucien Blake. If Jean thought she had the raw deal, having to contend with her wicked heart and its growing betrayals, it was nothing compared to Thomas getting back on his feet and suddenly having to face the daily grind of living with his very proud, very grown up son.

There was a familiarity to the routine now, after several months, but that didn't mean the routine was necessarily harmonious or even wanted by everybody.

"That is very true, Doctor", she called back. She tried not to take it personally that he used the same tone as with Li, when lightly scolding her or making her study her school books. Jean probably deserved it, having a sulk at the Master of the house, but after all, she didn't expect the Elder Blake to be sitting just around the corner listening in; she had thought him still in his room for the morning, or perhaps out in the garden. The man was too quiet for his own good, she thought.

Thomas' light little chuckle – whether at her expense or Lucien's – finally tipped her over the edge, and Jean approached the living room to continue this conversation face to face. She was mortified, of course, because it was most undignified to be called to this kind of conversation with her employer, but Jean was also a woman of poise, and she would face him with her head held high.

"If you've come to the end of your rope, I'm afraid I can't help you", said Thomas, peering over his paper at her once she was in view.

Jean's shoulders sagged and her eyes rolled, and for a moment she took comfort in the fact that she didn't have to explain to Thomas what her outburst was all about; it didn't matter about the details, all that mattered was that Lucien had _done something_ and Jean was off in a huff. Often it had something to do with the man's manners, or lack thereof, as his disregard for propriety was always the thing that tipped her most over the edge. Jean held exacting standards and expected everyone to meet them, including herself. Anything less was unconscionable. Thomas rather thought it was poetic that she and his son should have to share a house, for as much as they were different in so many ways, they both tended towards the sin of pride, which made for some rather amusing standoffs when it manifested so differently in each of them.

Jean and Lucien's friendship was deep, but it had petered out to a more manageable feeling of barely tolerating one another in recent weeks. After Christmas was over, and the New Year rung in – once Li was enrolled at the Grammar school and Thomas continued his recovery – things returned to a little more normal. That is to say, that Jean's minor infatuation which had sprung up in the early weeks of Lucien being home had given way easily to her exasperation with everything he did. Thomas was healthy enough to attend some of his usual patients, those with whom he had a lasting relationship, but newer patients and the younger, less frequent ones had been taken over by Lucien. And much to the chagrin of the elder, being in his sixties and with a health scare to worry about, he had finally passed the medical examiner's duties to Lucien for good, with Doug Ashby's blessing.

For all his posturing that he would leave – and Thomas' growing pains now that he stayed – Lucien was proving to be a valuable member of Ballarat's society. He still refused to attend the Club except for more formal occasions, and once or twice he had ticked off someone by the way he stuck his nose into police investigations. But when he managed to settle down his spirit, people took notice of him.

Which didn't necessarily help Jean, as everyone assumed such a gentleman must be a great catch and waiting in the wings to take her out in town. If only they knew, she thought to herself, what he was really like to live with. Thomas finally took pity on Jean and lowered his paper again to acknowledge her, still standing by his chair in silence.

"Would it comfort you to know that Doug Ashby has been moaning to me at the Club about Lucien's behaviour, almost as much as you do?"

Jean's face twisted in mock contemplation. "You know, oddly it does", she said, and smiled to temper the effects of such insubordination when Thomas tried and failed to hide a grin.

Jean never complained to Thomas outright – she would never dream to besmirch Lucien's name to his own father after working so hard to stitch them back together. But it could not go unnoticed just how often he got under her skin, either. Thomas was an astute man. He knew Jean, and he knew his son, and he could see – probably even clearer than they could – the unique bond forming between them. Not quite brotherly, just shy of flirtatious, they were a good match for each other, he thought.

Oh he worried, as any father would, about what that bond would turn into down the line. A potential for such a dynamic to shift infinitesimally into something else altogether, if timing and fate were kind. There had been hints in the early days, but Thomas had been too ill to ponder on it, and only knew of it based on the relationship they formed so swiftly right under his nose. By the time he was up and about on his own two feet, Lucien and Jean had developed shorthand that spoke of a deep understanding, and Thomas had been powerless to comprehend it, let alone to stop its progress. But now, a few months later, they moved around each other like they'd been doing it for years, and a tiny thought crept into Thomas's mind and took hold. There was a potential for something, and it caused him to pause and to ponder. Oh yes, Thomas liked Jean well enough, but as a daughter-in-law? Was that wise?

But then, he had spurned his last daughter-in-law in the most egregious of ways, and the young lady had not deserved it, and Thomas had been paying the price for it ever since. Jean was a good woman, and a proud member of his parish and his community; she had carried herself with nothing short of great self-respect since her husband's untimely death, even despite her sons, and it was the reason Thomas had hired her to begin with. Well, that, and an odd wave of altruism when faced with her circumstances.

It was far too early to tell yet, what might become of it, but Thomas could do far worse for a daughter-in-law than Jean Beazley. They were still finding their feet, and for every quiet moment of tenderness and familiarity between them, there were at least five of utter frustration. But there was affection there, in whatever guise it took. He would not push them in either direction, but neither would he stand in their way, and he knew it would be pointless anyway; such as they were, Lucien and Jean could only contemplate such things on their own time, at their own pace, and for their own reasons. Neither of them would listen to outside counsel even if it was offered.

In any case, the ire in Jean's gaze told him that she wouldn't be looking at Lucien twice any day soon, not so long as her perfectly good roast sat ruined in the kitchen sink.

She had walked into the kitchen moments ago and seen it sitting there, cut marks and indents from blunt blows scarring the flesh. Turning on her heal, Thomas had overheard her stomp out and towards the surgery where Lucien was writing up patient notes, heard muffled voices of their conversation, and then Jean's clipped gait as she returned to the kitchen, where she had promptly _lost it_. It had been quite the entertaining interlude; spoiled only by the fact Thomas couldn't see the action from his hiding place in the armchair.

Jean's eyes were pointed into the kitchen, a look of sorrow on her face. "So wasteful", she muttered to herself, shaking her head.

Lucien had realised the error of his ways at once, by the sound of the front door closing behind him, and set off into town to get a replacement for dinner, but that wasn't the point. He had grown up with privilege and money. No matter how many years passed between his youth and now – no matter how many of those years had been spent in poverty and ruin in a camp somewhere, or travelling rural China in search of his daughter – it seemed that old habits were hard to break. This house represented wealth and class, which afforded him the ability to use a perfectly good roast for experiments on contusion marks. In this house, in his position, and with pride still intact, Lucien Blake gave little deference to frugality.

But dear Jean, who still made her own clothes and saved all her spare money for a rainy day; who tended the garden for her hobby and felt that a night in town at the cinema was a rare treat. Jean, who had spent her entire youth and the years of her marriage on a farm, not knowing the finer things and learning to cherish the few delicate possession she owned like a new book or a basket of fine yarn to knit with. She did not understand how anybody could waste a perfectly good meal like that. It wasn't in her nature to see such a thing as good to any cause, for she had grown up helping her father to spot and kill rabbits and then use every inch of the animal towards something meaningful.

Oh, she knew that people with money could afford such things, and had slowly become accustomed to the wealth of this house in her own way, if it called for a handy man or a delivery of wood for the fire in winter. But those were always practical endeavours. They still served a purpose or assisted in their quality of living. Never would she waste food that could have sustained them all for the night and perhaps even a little left over for morning.

In this Thomas was wholly underprepared to referee, for in truth he was not overly bothered by Lucien's behaviour, although he did acknowledge it was inconsiderate. But it was in the pursuit of solving what was quickly shaping up to be a case of murder, and although Thomas had never once used his dinner to prove a point, he was proud of his son's sharp mind. They all were. Sometimes Lucien would discuss a case at the kitchen table and they would all listen with rapt attention at his reasoning, bouncing ideas off one another so that even Jean couldn't look away. She was clever too, always pitching in, but there was an ineffable line somewhere in her psyche that once crossed, would tip her from reluctant sidekick to adversary in the blink of an eye. One false step and an enthralling dinner table conversation would become unseemly; one incorrect assumption about someone in town could raise her hackles. Thomas thought he had a better grasp of where that line was, merely because he didn't test its boundaries, but Lucien; he tended to waltz around without any deference for lines at all.

Hence, Jean was standing in front of Thomas trying very hard not to sound like a schoolgirl dobbing to the principle.

"He didn't mean anything by it" said Thomas, shaking his head a little. He sounded dismissive, and in many ways he probably was, but it comforted Jean all the same. Lucien certainly didn't mean anything malicious by it, and it did her good to be reminded of that before her pride and vanity made her think that Lucien's entire day was spent wondering on how his actions might affect her.

"I know", she said, and sighed to herself. She wouldn't get any more from Thomas; he didn't choose sides, and if he did it would be his son's. "Let's just hope it helps him solve this case"

Thomas hid his smirk as she walked away. Her tone was not as conciliatory as she perhaps hoped it was. But as soon as it came, his smirk disappeared again, as he heard Jean getting the kitchen ready to start meal prep while she hummed to herself, a habit he had noticed when she was trying to pull herself from a bad mood. Thomas wondered just how practiced the action was; very, he knew, considering everything. Jean wasn't easily spooked away, but everyone had their limits, and Thomas wondered just how long it would take until Lucien found hers. Jean did not deserve to be genuinely hurt at all, and Thomas could see – even as much as he loved his son, there was so much of his mother in him that he could always see the impending storm – one day Lucien would cross a line too far. The fallout would be explosive, and hurtful, and Lucien would deserve it no doubt, but Jean wouldn't.

Thomas decided then to have a word with his son, and soon, to perhaps be a little more deferential to the housekeeper. Unorthodox, yes, but few others would tolerate Lucien's antics quite so well, and Thomas was rather fond of Jean's estimable cooking and didn't want to lose her company. They had all struck a rather nice balance, and Thomas was a man of habits and principles, who didn't want to see his household upended yet again because his irreverent son went and shot his mouth off at the wrong time.

No, he would not interfere or play referee in their petty little wars, but there were real feelings on the line as well, and if there was one thing Thomas was quite confident in, it was giving his son a stern talking to. As to how it would be received, well, he had absolutely no way to predict that, and so didn't even bother trying.


	17. Chapter 17

_Hopefully the length of this chapter makes up for the wait! In keeping with the spirit of canon, there are times I will rip lovingly from the exact dialogue. The pieces used in this chapter are among my favourite of the series._

 _As always, enjoy!_

~0~

Thomas knew this day was coming, and yet still, when it did, he was taken quite by surprise. For weeks he watched as steadily, restlessly, Lucien's discontent grew again with each passing day; watched as Jean retreated further and further into herself until she barely spoke one-worded answers, even to young dear Li. The tension rose like a tightened violin string.

There was an avenue lined with thousands of trees over the other side of the lake, supposedly the longest of its kind in the country, and over the road where the avenue began there was an Arch of Victory. For the longest time, the only names on the plaques in front of the tress dated from when Jean and Lucien were children, uncles and the fathers of friends now almost forgotten, remembered enthusiastically by Ballarat with the promise of _never again_. But in recent years there were so many more names; all those men and boys who never came home from another war. Although she could not afford the plaque on a tree, if Jean could have spared the expense Christopher Beazley's name would have been among them somewhere, and so Thomas understood her silence. Each year it came and each year Thomas gave her the space she obviously needed to get through it.

But as ANZAC Day approached, and the town and the nation went quiet in their remembered grief, Lucien started to rankle and hiss like a cut snake, his ire piqued at just about any mention of suffering. There were scars on his son that would never quite heal, beyond the strained and wretched skin of his back, where regained weight and muscle pulled against shiny stretches. There was always something hiding in the corner of his eyes – sometimes quieted by the peace of their home, but never fully gone – that told Thomas he could, and likely had, killed men with his bare hands. There were shouts and terrors in the night that Li had long gotten used to, that Thomas and Jean still sometimes woke to, as he yelled or thrashed about in sheets he thought were trying to strangle him.

Thomas knew that one day, when he felt safe enough and secure in his home, Lucien would let the dam waters break, and Thomas always assumed it would be directed at himself, so was prepared for it. He wasn't afraid of his son; he was sorry for him, worried for him, but not afraid of him, _so let his tirade come_ , thought Thomas, not understanding that the waters running under their bridge were so very different from the ones buried in a box under Lucien's bed.

So when it happened – when Lucien finally went too far and pushed beyond even Jean's indelible limits, it rippled through the house like a shot, leaving them all taken quite by surprise. Shocked, was perhaps the better word, shocked by the force of the fallout and the intensity of the reactions and by the depth of the mutual hurt that coursed through the house when Lucien and Jean returned home from the Club.

Thomas was there at the Club when it happened. He had seen what was coming, and though he had tried to calm Lucien down – though he, and Doug Ashby, and even Patrick Tyneman, had all stepped in to field Lucien away from the Army men talking about valour, and bravery, and loss – it had been of no use. He was too full of liquor, and too hurt, and far too proud. Lucien was a strong man, always well-built, and it took all three of them to pull him away once he got going, and poor Patrick had caught the edge of a flying fist.

All the men in the town watched as Lucien stood in the middle of the Colonists' and railed against the Army and institutions that had allowed him and his friends to once again become cannon fodder for the British. He spoke of pain, of losing his wife only to feel like people were glad for it because she was Chinese, _one of them_ ; he spoke of being locked up and starving in another world as men died around him just for a chance to eat; he turned on the crowd and shouted about the town's ignorance, their stares when Li walked down the street, their willingness to welcome back the very men that had not so long ago condemned thousands to die. Singapore was a thorn in the Commonwealth's side as far as wartime reputation went; a failure on so many levels it was immeasurable, including its personal failure to Lucien. All of which he spoke to, without deference, as Australian and visiting British Army officials sat with mouths agape at his candour.

It was brutal, and in many ways Thomas understood that he wasn't necessarily wrong. But _oh Lucien_ , he thought, as he watched Doug Ashby force him out to the police car and cart him off to the drunk tank to sober up. Patrick was still pondering an assault charge, jeopardising Lucien's job, and wasn't that just icing on the cake.

The awkwardness that settled over the room once he was gone echoed beyond just the words that had flown, for once the bell was rung it could not be unrung; Lucien had stirred up all the hurt and pain they had tried to move on from since the war ended. There were still rations in parts of the country; there were still families picking up pieces of what the war brought to their doorsteps. There were still thousands of Australian bodies buried in foreign soil never to be identified and returned home, Christopher Beazley among them. Details about what happened _over there_ and who was to blame were changing every day, as history was written down and stories told to the masses. Thomas was equal parts furious at his son and sorry for him – he didn't get to mourn the way so many others did, he was too busy surviving, healing, and then looking for Li. It seemed that his agony was only now landing back in reality; grating against the peace everyone else was seeking for themselves. Lucien would always be changed by the war, he knew, like so many men who never seemed right again. And he tried, truly tried, not to let it get to him, but there was only so much a man could bear. All at once, the crowds got that same look in their eye as the day he came back, looking mangy and homeless and reminding them of misery.

Jean had been the one they called to go and collect him the following day. Thomas was busy seeing a patient, filling prescriptions before ANZAC Day, and he was opting for a coward's way so didn't change those plans. It was April 22, a glorious sunny Saturday that should have been dedicated to walks in the park and running lazy errands in town.

But in they walked, the two of them silent and stormy. Lucien had lost his tie somewhere, and his jacket was slung over his arm; Jean clipped away without a word to go to the kitchen, and then further out to the garden to cool off. It was obvious they hadn't said a word to one another the whole journey home, and Thomas imagined it in his mind, that Jean was too deferential to Lucien's position to give him a piece of her mind, and too cross to hold back once she started. Lucien was far too obstinate to break a truce, so the two of them stayed silent.

When Thomas emerged from his study to wordlessly greet his son home in the hall, a file in hand that he was pretending to read, Lucien held up his hand.

"Don't", he said. He was feigning anger, but Thomas knew better; it was embarrassment and hurt more than anything. The night in the cells had done little for his nerves; his hands still shook.

"I won't", said Thomas. And he wouldn't. There wasn't much to be said, nothing useful anyway, so he wouldn't say anything. "But I think you owe an apology"

"I already spoke to Doug", he snapped, as he started stalking towards the stairs in long strides.

"I'm not talking about Doug Ashby"

Lucien stopped by the bottom of the stairs and met his father's gaze. Thomas nodded his head in the direction of the kitchen, and watched as the feigned anger drained from Lucien's face and was replaced by despair. Oh yes, he knew what he had done – there was little point in lecturing him about it. Lucien wasn't mindful of many people; Li always, and maybe Thomas when it suited him. Doug when it came to work, but only just. But Jean. Jean was in another category all her own where Lucien was concerned. They had become formidable, and somewhat volatile, friends. His lack of care butting against her care in everything; his brashness constantly stomping over her deference; her guidance edged with steel enough to make him stop and listen, to be still for once. More than a few times Thomas had gotten wind that Jean defended Lucien's name to people in town, assuring them that the enigmatic doctor was up to the task of walking in his father's footsteps.

If Lucien thought he was making a point, throwing his temper tantrum at the Army like a baby throwing his toys from the cot, he was more egotistical than Thomas first thought. Which perhaps wouldn't have been a problem for a man like him ordinarily, except that Lucien genuinely cared about Jean, and the opinion she held for him, and Thomas knew that if anyone would be able to pull him back into line it would be Jean. Not because she would discipline him, no, much more powerful than that; Lucien would do it for himself, because he wanted to please her. Because he wanted her good grace.

They hadn't, as far as Thomas was aware, moved closer together than their positions would allow. But Jean was good for him in so many ways, not least because she inspired in him the best Lucien could be. And when things were calm, and they were in good spirits, Lucien opened Jean's world with his stories and his curiosity, in the ways he relied on her to help him solve any number of problems. They were chalk and cheese. But they were good for each other.

If Lucien's clodhopping feet didn't trample all over it in the meantime.

Lucien looked up the stairs, begging for the peace his room would provide. But never a coward when it counted, he then turned on his heel and headed towards the kitchen with a deep sigh and his head hanging low.

Thomas smirked to himself. He was still furious with him of course, but five minutes with Jean would no doubt be punishment enough.

~0~

Lucien found her in the garden pulling washing from the line in short and jarring motions. Of course, her folding was still impeccable, because otherwise she would only increase her ironing to do later, but even so she was venting her frustration as much as she could. Lucien nearly winced to watch her, though his head thumped with a lingering hangover and his blood boiled every time he thought of those pompous bastard's faces at the Club, banging on about things they didn't understand.

Jean heard him coming, obviously, for her movements became more stilted as he drew nearer. He had left his jacket hanging over the back of a kitchen chair, and his sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, his hands in his pockets. He was trying to be casual, but he was treading so lightly – so carefully – that it wasn't quite working. It gave Jean's anger space to move, to breath, to find purchase and be let out rather than fester between them. It also meant she knew what was coming. He had given her this opportunity, when he so easily could have stayed away from her for the rest of the day, so when she was done (and he did not interrupt her chore) Jean picked up the washing basket and plastered it on her hip. Then she turned to face him, her brow furrowed, her hands holding fast to the basket for something to do.

He watched her, and waited, and when she met his eyes he did not look away.

"I'm sor-"

"Who do you think you are, Lucien?" she asked, cutting over any feeble apology he was trying to offer her. She didn't shout, and somehow that was worse. He ducked his head for a moment, face serious and lips pursed.

"I embarrassed you", he said, not a question.

Jean, looked heavenward, her usual sign that she was asking for strength in dealing with _a difficult man_ ; Lucien had teased her about it when Thomas was in a mood. It was more hurtful than he anticipated being on the receiving end himself.

"I don't care about the embarrassment", she said. She picked at one of the pairs of socks sitting on top of the basket. Now that they were being honest her anger looked to slink away and leave all her hurt in its place. She was still mad, but not for the reasons he may think. "It's the lecturing I don't like. And the fact that you think you're the only one who matters"

She finally met his eyes again, and hers were wild with all the buried hurts she didn't voice, didn't put name to, but that she lived with every day in that little room at the end of the hall just next to his. Jean didn't cry out in her sleep, or start shaking in small spaces, or snap at people violently when she'd had too much to drink (if she ever had too much to drink, which Lucien had never seen her do). Hers was the pain of so many loved ones left behind. It was different to his, but then everyone's pain was different, and though she had never seen a battlefront, Lucien knew she had been as indelibly marked by the war as he had. And here they both stood, expected to live on in the aftermath.

"Everyone in that room lost someone or something. You're not the only one"

And he knew that, he really did. But he was also selfish, and the journey he had been on – the blows, one after another after another, which alone were torment enough but together felt like too much – made Lucien feel like he earned the right to tell the Army, the British, and anyone who would listen to get stuffed. He didn't mean to make it into a competition, but in his darkest moments, and in the fog of his anger, sometimes Lucien couldn't help but think, _everyone may have suffered but I suffered the most,_ and he knew that if he was going to make peace with those years it would be the first thought he needed to banish. There were plenty of people that got off lighter than Lucien, but there were plenty more that suffered a great deal beyond. It didn't matter to Jean whose tally was higher. Lucien had come home, and Christopher had not.

"You embarrassed yourself", she finished. "But you insulted the rest of us"

And with that she hitched the basket firmer against her hip and walked past him, brushing by his shoulder as she made her way to the house. Maybe with time and tempering her reaction may not have been quite so aggressive, but it was only four and a half years since the war was over and she received word that her husband was dead. Lucien's ranting at the Club in front of half the town had picked at a scab not fully healed, and his insinuation – intended or not – that his pain trumped all the pain in the room was such a deep insult to Christopher that Jean physically recoiled to recall it. His contrition only made her want to slap him across the face, and so she removed herself before she did just that, knowing all the while that he probably would have let her if she tried. Because damn a man who somehow made his apology into her moment to speak.

And frankly, it was high time they all stopped dancing around the fact that – brilliance and natural ability aside – Lucien Blake was probably the most arrogant man she had ever met. Oh yes, Patrick Tyneman gave it a red hot go, but he was also a man of the community, even if his wife and son were spoilt brats. And Doug Ashby had a stick up his arse, but besides her personal dislike for the man Jean knew he was respected by Ballarat as a whole. There were a great many people full of pride, Jean included, but Lucien was in a class all his own and right now, in this moment, in this mood, Jean was just about done with him. She didn't look back as she stalked into the house, which was enough to make her point, she thought.

~0~

On Tuesday morning the house was solemn and quiet. They had plodded along through Sunday – mass for Jean and Thomas, a sleep in and quiet morning for Lucien and Li – and beared Monday along with the rest of the town. But come Tuesday the mood had not lifted and the weight of the day ensured it wouldn't for some time, no matter that it was a public holiday. Jean attended the dawn service alone, and then returned in time to prepare an early lunch for them all before the afternoon parade began. Over the back of a chair in her room was an Army jacket, adored with medals, and Lucien had spotted it in the morning before she returned, when he'd gone to seek her out, before remembering that she was in town long before he was awake.

The sight had brought home her reality in a way he didn't expect – seeing that simple jacket, the small smattering of medals. Christopher had left for the front long after Lucien was already in captivity; his involvement in the Pacific had been swift and fatal, the meagre few medals on his jacket reflecting too closely the effects of rash decisions made by young, naïve men. Lucien had been prepared for the war. He had trained as a trauma surgeon and joined the Army with eyes wide open; he had seen Singapore fall piece by piece, and then dealt with the aftermath however he could. Maybe that was why he lived.

Or maybe it was just dumb luck.

So many young, naïve men were not lucky, and Christopher's medals brought a lump to his throat as Lucien recalled so many friends and comrades he had seen fall victim along the way, as he held their hands and told them lies and shushed them into sleep.

The gravity of what he had done hit him anew, not just for the personal upset he had caused to dear sweet Jean, but the memories he had tarnished with his own sense of self-importance. All the friends he had insulted by suggesting that the motives of the higher ups mattered to the manner of their deaths. Maybe the British had fed the ANZACs to the wolves again and again, and maybe the hubris they showed in Singapore would forever be remembered. Or maybe it wouldn't.

But it had happened, all of it, one way or another, and somehow the Allies had won despite all the various times it looked like they wouldn't. Lucien shuddered to think what the world would look like if Hitler or the Japs – or both – had won power over their various theatres. He wouldn't be standing in Ballarat, living in this house with Li; he wouldn't have time to be angry about his lot if he was dead. There had to be a middle ground, he figured, the way he had found peace with the church. He wouldn't begrudge people their parades and their ceremonies and their observance of a history written by the victors, but neither would he be a part of it. He would simply _be_ , and hoped that was enough for the people who loved him. Jean included, God willing.

Lucien was still upstairs when he heard Jean home, washing the pans he had left in the sink from breakfast. He felt guilty that she had got to it first, and so went downstairs where she was engaged in a fascinating conversation with Li about the girl's newfound love, cricket. It seemed she had walked past some boys playing it over the weekend and had taken a fancy to the game. Or maybe it was to one of the boys, Lucien wouldn't know, but either way he was somewhat chuffed that Li was beginning to assimilate into Australian culture, even if it was a sport he didn't particularly love.

"I'm going to go outside and practice my bowling", he heard her say, just as he reached the kitchen doorway.

"Not towards the windows", called Jean. She sounded like she was speaking from experience, which made Lucien's lips purse in a small smile. One day, he thought to himself, it might actually be nice to meet her sons. Well, the older one at least.

He made sure to step heavily into the room so Jean would know he was there, and silently got to putting the kettle on. There was a plate of sandwich triangles in the centre of the table with a tea towel over the top of them to keep flies away. Lucien brought down two cups and saucers, and then while Jean finished the dishes and started drying them he prepared the teapot and got the milk and set out the sugar bowl. All without saying a word, because they had yet to see each other today and this was a test.

But there was something about Jean that had softened since the night before, something that showed itself when they both settled into their seats at the table, tea in front of them, and nibbled at a sandwich each with their eyes focused away from the other. She wasn't pushing him away now – she wasn't her usual open self by any means, but the early morning service to remember their fallen countrymen had knocked some of the wind from her sails.

"It's good to see Christopher's medals", said Lucien softly. He hadn't looked at her again, his gaze firmly fixed on the sandwich in his hand. Jean's eyes flicked down to her chest and then back to him, perhaps a little surprised to hear her husband's name come from his lips.

"You aren't marching?" she asked gently. She didn't really expect him to, but part of her was still surprised by the ferocity of how deeply he hated the war-time institutions. Lucien had medals, she was sure, but she had never once laid eyes on them. He was dressed in a casual jumper with no intention to change, and she wondered at a man who had done so much, and was so angry about it, and yet didn't want to celebrate any of the good or remember his friends. _Do you not see yourself as a hero, Lucien_ , she wanted to ask. _Do you not understand that you're one of the good guys?_ But she didn't dare put voice to the question, because she knew and feared the answer.

"No", he breathed, head bowed. "No, not today"

Not never, she heard, but certainly not today.

Jean sat in the silence and sipped at her tea, her mind too focussed on where he was in the room to taste anything. He was sat in the chair at the other end of the table to her, neither of them looking at the other but likewise neither of them looking away. He would speak, she knew; it's why he sat down, was to speak to her, rather than avoid her, and so she sipped her tea and waited in silence for him to gather his courage and speak.

"I certainly never meant to insult you", he said gently, looking dead ahead at the window to the backyard. "And you're right. I was only thinking of myself"

His eyes flicked to the medals where they sat against her breast, not salacious or even fully seeing, but an acknowledgement of where his mind had travelled in between his words. And then he flicked his gaze to hers and her breath caught with the sincerity she found there.

"And I know I'm not the only person who lost someone"

He didn't often think about Christopher Beazley, as a habit. Oh yes, he knew she was a widow – knew all too well, if he was being honest – and that she had two children by her husband. Sometimes he wondered if the boys would ever be coming back, if he would get to meet them. But the reality that Jean had once been someone's _wife_ , that they had lived on a farm outside of town and she was a young mother and a _wife_ ; it often escaped his consciousness. She was just _Jean_. A marvel in the kitchen, a kind helper with Li, the support he and his father needed, and his ever-increasing best friend here in Ballarat. The thought of her being a wife, in the same way that he had been a husband, let in so many tangential and connected thoughts that he found it somewhat indecent to think so deeply of her private life. That she had shared a man's bed. That she had walked down the aisle dressed in white. That she had kissed, and made love, and brought children into the world, and sobbed deep in her belly when it had all changed forever. Part of Lucien, a part he refused to take notice of for the moment, knew he was falling in love with her. As to what kind of love was yet to be decided, and would in part be determined by Jean, but it was no doubt love all the same. To think that he was not the first man to do so jolted him.

Maybe he was far more selfish than he gave himself credit for. And he was still grieving. They both were. It's why he lashed out, and why she snapped back, and why the last few days had been so difficult for the two of them, because they were both still so deeply sad. Jean had her faith to turn to, and Lucien had Li – they both now shared the responsibility of a new life in Ballarat, changed from the one they had before. They would continue to build it together, but it would take hard work and a lot of understanding, and Lucien knew he had to be less selfish. Jean had shown him rather a lot of understanding, and Lucien knew he owed her the courtesy of showing her some in return.

He stood from the table, taking his teacup with him to the sink where he rinsed it and left it to dry on the drainer. Jean would probably end up rinsing hers and then drying them both and putting them away, but for now she didn't move from where she sat.

"Thank you for the sandwiches", said Lucien.

"You're welcome", she replied, watching as he awkwardly stepped away and towards the kitchen door.

"And…" Lucien turned, gestured to her, met her eyes and quickly looked away again. He patted the back of his head and then – unsure where to put his hands – he shoved them in his pockets. "March well today"

Jean was too stunned by the gesture to say anything, and before she could he had turned on his heal and disappeared into the hall. But the smallest of smiles graced her face at the sincerity of his words. He didn't believe in the marching, and the parades, and all the trappings; no doubt he saw it as washing over the realness of war with false platitudes, or something equally pedestrian. But he had reached out an olive branch; not quite an apology, but an acknowledgement was almost the same thing, in spirit. Jean sipped her tea, and let one hand gently trace the shapes of Christopher's medals with her fingertips. And then she sent up a silent prayer, and if it happened to be for two soldiers then so be it.


	18. Chapter 18

_Thank you to everyone hanging in there, I appreciate you a lot._

 _Enjoy!_

~0~

It took Jean a while to forgive him – several days, maybe even a week – but in the end she did, because he was Lucien and because she was Jean and it never crossed her mind that she wouldn't. He tolerated her frostiness for two days, and then spent a few more trying too hard to make her smile. She never let him see it when she did, of course, but he kept trying and she kept letting him. And so by the last few days of their stalemate he started to act up – it was only by the grace of God that she saved yet another good cut of meat from his unnecessary tinkering. He really was a child, she thought, as she watched him leave experiments around the kitchen for her to comment on. Her sons used to do the same thing with dirty clothes on the floor, when she scolded them and they were looking for her love again.

But Jean was never one to hold a grudge for long. Yes, she had a long memory, and she would absolutely be keeping an eye on his bad behaviour in the future. But she didn't have it in her to stay actively angry at him for long, not least because it was exhausting doing anything but _keeping up_ with Lucien at any given time. And so after a week or so she woke up and decided to give him a smile that morning over breakfast, and the second she did it was like snow melting in the sun. Which was timely, because just as their minor rift mended the change of season started creeping in.

Winter always seemed to arrive to Ballarat quicker than anywhere else, the cold settling in like damp in socks. The wind bit hard, and when the sun was gone behind a cloud it was nearly impossible to get the cold out of the house, so they all started keeping their jumpers on even as the fireplace roared each autumn night. Jean wondered at Li's ability to adapt, unfamiliar with how the temperature might have been in China, and too wary of the girl's still-healing heart to ask after it. But she coped, and was delighted by the soft wool jumpers that her father bought for her, and equally thankful for the scarf and beany that Jean knitted in a pale yellow. Li loved to curl up in front of the fireplace with a book and the wireless on. Thomas kept threatening to replace the old-fashioned grate and chimney with an electric heater; some modern looking thing Jean was wary of, but it seemed it was postponed another year in favour of the wood fireplace, supplemented by the wood oven in the kitchen that she kept burning long after dinner was done.

"We might even get snow", said Jean to Li one night as the wind outside howled, and she watched the girl's face light up at the thought, after experiencing near-40 degrees just a couple of months ago.

And so it was that summer swiftly left, and in true Ballarat fashion the weather changed almost immediately to the start of winter, with very little autumn to speak of. They all stayed inside more, and soaked up the warmth of each other's company the way they soaked up the summer sun. And most nights it was rather lovely for the four of them to listen to music and potter in the lounge room.

Lucien took Li upstairs to bed, lingered long enough to read another chapter of their book together, and then he came back downstairs to share a nightcap with Jean and Thomas. Jean had changed into her night clothes and pinned her hair in its net – in the early days she had avoided such displays, but living in the same house they all quickly let go of any vanity. After all, there was no reason to hide her nightly routines from either man; she wasn't trying to impress.

Thomas had also changed after his bath, and was seated in the armchair with a medical journal, a finger of scotch, and his robe and slippers on, looking the picture of domesticity. He was also looking every bit his age these days – skin thinning and eyes squinting through glasses he refused to have checked again just yet. Privately Jean wondered how long it would be before the man retired for good. Probably years, if his pride had any say in it. But the heart attack had knocked the wind from his sails, and though he was almost completely recovered he would never hold the same vitality. Something had irrevocably faded that day. Instead it was Lucien's energy that bounded through the house, and little Li trailing after him. The year felt like a turning point – a passing of the baton in a relay none of them quite knew how to win – and though part of Jean was fearful, another secret part was delighted. Change so rarely happened in her life, her heart was crying out to see what would unfold as the younger Blake injected his views into the house and upon Ballarat.

Lucien came back downstairs without any of that vitality, instead displaying the rare quiet spirit that often caused Jean to go weak for him. He was a bombastic man, but he had a gentle heart, and in those fleeting moments she was reminded of his goodness and of his care, and how much she admired him in so many ways she could never say out loud. Without speaking, Jean put her knitting aside and held up a deck of cards as Lucien re-entered the lounge. He nodded and gave a small smile as he collected a glass of scotch for himself. From the drinks cart he held up the sherry bottle to Jean in askance, and she pointed at the cup of tea on the coffee table, freshly brewed, so he nodded and placed the bottle back down.

Drink in hand, Lucien walked to the couch and heaved into it next to Jean, sighing long and loud as she dealt them both in for a hand of gin rummy.

Neither of them noticed Thomas peering over his paper watching the whole wordless exchange, which was probably for the best, though he tried valiantly to hide his grin.

But Jean did notice Lucien looking at her, as they worked their way through one game and then two. A sly look here, a hidden grin there, and every time she sassed him without humour he managed to find the humour anyway, laughing at her as if she'd told a joke. He wasn't put off by the delicate walls she had erected long ago, which was disarming. As she started dealing their third game, Jean caught him again with that same look on his face – one she refused to put a name to even as she wondered, fearfully, what the look on her own face betrayed.

They couldn't, she had decided. Not least because she still hurt all over with the loneliness of losing Christopher. Lucien was less than six months home. He was the Master of the house and she was the hired help, and what did it say about her if she let such a thing happen without any guarantee that it wouldn't ruin her. And it would ruin her, she knew, because any whispers that might still linger around them were always about her. Never Lucien – never how his reputation would suffer or his position be compromised, no, it was always about what _else_ Jean could bare to lose in her life, after everything that had already happened. About how desperate women did desperate things when they felt they had no options; or worse, when they were given no options, as though Lucien was a letch, which hurt just to think about. He was so deferential to her, he wasn't forcing this. He had never invaded her space, had never set foot in her room, though it was right next to his, save the few times she had invited him to enter innocently.

But it was not Lucien who would suffer the derision. And at the end of the day, as much as her eye caught on him, and she smiled when he was doing well and hurt for him when he wasn't, Jean's heart was not yet open. The thought of touching her lips to another's, of feeling his arms around her, of taking a man who was not Christopher to her bed, made her reel back as though struck. It was wrong, and dirty, and her eyes would flick to a door or a window expecting to see her husband standing there calling her an adulteress. Lucien deserved better than a woman unwilling to move forward. Christopher deserved better to his memory.

Jean didn't know what she deserved. Maybe one day she would look for love again. But by then Lucien would have moved on too and it wasn't worth dwelling on anyway. She would find a nice man later in life to grow old with – maybe one of the drama society types, or a butcher or tailor, new in town looking for a fresh start. Someone steady and kind, with whom she could ease into retirement and live in a small house at the edge of the country with a garden all her own. But it wouldn't be a dashing veteran doctor by any means, oh no, he was too far above her station and too reckless for Jean to contemplate a life with in any real sense. They'd kill each other.

Lucien's friendship was more than enough. She felt happy just thinking about it, the burdens of her heart lighter to carry and the joy of her day easier to find when he was around to share in it with her, bringing stories of the young and silly nurses at the hospital, or asking her advice on the few people that crossed his autopsy table. He relied on her with most things, his brain too often caught in the clouds to be bothered focussing on the minutiae of the daily grind. Lucien was a doting father, and in spite of their friction he was a good son to Thomas, and to Jean he was the dearest of friends. Just the other day he had sat at the piano to play some Vaudeville standard and begged – no, _demanded_ – she sing along with him. They had laughed and laughed as the words got tangled and their voices carried, and when Jean spotted Thomas at the door watching them she hadn't even blushed.

This was another such night. Quiet, warm with the fire, everyone contented and comfortable, free of any judgements.

And then there was a scratching sound, a crash and a thud. It came from down the hall, and they knew without looking that it wasn't a normal sound - nothing Li would have done, and no picture falling from the wall. There was another thud and a scrape like a furniture leg across the wooden floors.

Jean looked at Lucien and his face had grown stormy and dangerous. She looked to Thomas, who looked equally riotous, although not quite so scary. Lucien was on his feet and down the hall before Jean could think twice, his gait soundless on the floor, a soft _stay here_ falling from his lips as he went. As though that would be enough to quell Jean's curiosity and worry. She leapt from her seat to follow and inched down the hall quietly behind him, Thomas walking softly behind her. They hugged the wall like she had seen in the movies, but in truth they had no idea what Lucien had walked towards.

"Jean, get back", urged Thomas, ever the gentleman, but she waved her hand at him rudely to get him to quiet so she could listen. Lucien had disappeared into the study, and there were voices and shuffling. Something – or somebody – hit the wall with a grunt.

"What the bloody hell are you doing here", she heard Lucien say through gritted teeth.

"My rifle, Jean", whispered Thomas. "It's under my bed"

Her eyes flicked from Thomas, to the entrance of the medical practice, to Thomas' bedroom door just opposite, her mind calculating the distances. But it was too risky; Thomas' bedroom door was too close to the study to go unnoticed.

"You stopped answering our letters", said an unfamiliar voice. It was deep, threatening, but Australian from what Jean could tell. They seemed to know each other then, but even so, Jean wondered what kind of man would rather climb through a window than knock on the front door, and all at once she was afraid again.

"I told you I wouldn't be going back. I told you I was done"

And wasn't that a strange thing to say. But then, Lucien often said strange things about his past. Just enough to pique curiosity, but always in a way that begged her not to ask. She wasn't stupid; Jean knew Lucien's service record was a world away from Christopher's. A man like Lucien didn't just run guns to the front lines, no, a man like Lucien was much more important than that. But still, the most she had been able to glean was that he had been involved in signals or intelligence – something that sounded far too much like spy work for her country town mind – and she had been too afraid of his answers to seek clarification.

And then a memory came to her, brought on a wave of grief for the ANZAC Day fiasco. She remembered there had been a man – a soldier – at the festivities when Lucien lost his cool. Jean didn't think anything of it at the time, after all, many people in the military seemed to know each other, and it was a small world of people who had served overseas and returned again. But Lucien had avoided him, and cast unfriendly looks in the man's direction while the stranger stared at Lucien like he was a piece of meat. When she asked him if it was an old friend Lucien had only muttered _not a friend_ and kept walking, and that was the end of it. But there was a story there which Jean could never hope to figure out; a past that followed Lucien like a shadow. Who knew what he was doing in Asia in the years he was searching for Li. A white soldier floating around the countryside would have needed a reason to be there. Perhaps, she thought, fearful and angry, one of those chickens had come home to roost.

There was another grunt and a thud – someone had got the upper hand, and they couldn't see into the room to figure out just how much trouble Lucien was in.

Silently, without thought or reason, Jean turned on her heel and bolted upstairs. Thomas must have though her retreating, and hid himself in the stairwell to listen on, far too frail to step in with his son, though he was building up his courage to do just that. He was positively ropeable when Jean reappeared on the stairs, Christopher's pistol in her shaky hand.

"Don't you dare", he said, but she didn't take notice of Thomas, only stormed past him towards the study, where the voices continued to speak in terse tones and veiled threats. She heard the words _duty_ , and _operative_ , and Lucien weakly replied something like _I don't do that anymore_ , but she didn't stop to consider what it all meant before she stormed through the door with a shout.

"Put it down", she cried.

Jean was less surprised by what she found that she should have been. Lucien was being held against the wall of the medical practice with a gun pointed at his abdomen by a tall man in army greens. They were both panting, their eyes frantic. At her words the man pulled Lucien into his arms and held the gun against his ribs right in line with his heart. Jean held up the pistol in two hands, her aim shaky, but she figured it would get the message across all the same.

"Jean, no", cried Lucien. His eyes had gone wide and soft at the sight of her. But she wasn't so much afraid as angry; how dare this man invade their house and threaten Lucien and put them all at risk. There was a child sleeping upstairs, for heaven's sake. Her mind didn't have time to process the danger she was putting herself in, too busy taking in the scene and her own need to end this stupidity. She felt Thomas step up behind her and that made her feel braver, somehow, like she was flanked by friends.

"You let him go this moment", she said.

"This isn't about you", said the man, his eyes dead and black. "Leave now"

"I will not. Let him go"

"This is a matter of national security-"

"Bullshit it is", said Lucien. The man tightened his grip in rebuke.

"Let him go now and we won't involve the police. You can walk out of here and we'll say nothing", said Jean. The man got a look on his face like he knew something she didn't; like it wouldn't matter if they called in the entire cavalry. Jean didn't understand his smugness or what he and Lucien's relationship to be, as they obviously knew each other well enough. Jean didn't care. Lucien was being threatened, the safety of the people she had come to rely on most in the world was being threatened, and – though they liked to think they didn't need her – the only parent her sons had left was being threatened. Jean did not take kindly to threats, especially ones delivered so rudely through windows.

Thomas had moved into the room and was beside Jean, trying to move himself between her and the rest of them, but she was holding firm to her ground. The officer was clearly thinking about the offer she'd made, wondering if it was worth it to continue his menace given there were witnesses, and so Jean delivered what she hoped was a hard hit.

"What are you planning to do, kill us all? If you shoot him, I'll shoot you"

Lucien got a pained look on his face. Jean didn't give him the satisfaction of noticing it, for her vision had become a tunnel focussed right onto the face of this man who was rapidly becoming her least favourite person. She hoped she hadn't given him any ideas to shoot them all, but really what did he expect, attacking a family home where three adults were sitting up and willing to fight back.

"This is my Christopher's gun", she continued. "He was an honourable man who died for his country. I wonder what he'd make of you"

Her voice sounded reedy even to her own ears, but she hoped the appeal to duty would be the right thing to say all the same. The man sneered, but then his grip loosened and he stepped away from Lucien, his gun still aimed at them all. Lucien ducked next to Jean's shoulder, behind her line of aim. Her hand had become much steadier, and she felt positively calm when she heard him mutter a soft _thank you Jean_ into her ear.

Walking slowly backwards, the man approached the open window from where he'd entered. He stepped over the broken vase at his feet, and the strewn papers all over, and folded himself through the frame, all the while his gun was up and aimed at the room.

"This isn't over, Doctor. I won't be the only one", he said, and then he was gone into the night, his footsteps echoing on the gravel driveway faster than his size gave him credit for.

For a moment none of them moved, listening to the sudden silence and the crickets outside. Jean lowered her arm with a deep breath out, and Thomas relaxed from where he was standing just behind them. Lucien stalked to the window to close it and lock it, pulling the curtains and looking into the night, but he could see nothing. He walked back over to them, wild around the edges.

"My God", muttered Thomas. He placed one hand on his chest as though to signal just how bloody terrifying it had been. Like they didn't already know, what with the two loaded guns in the room and Lucien rubbing at the red marks on his neck. Lucien was standing still as the darkness melted from his features, but his eyes were still afraid as he looked them both over, his hand landing at Jean's hip and not moving away for some time.

He got a thought and looked around at the doorway. "Where is Li?"

"Still asleep", answered Jean. "She didn't hear a thing"

"And it's just as bloody well", snapped Thomas. He was still fuming and his heart was still racing from the adrenaline. "What on earth was that about, Lucien?"

"I can't say", he replied as he ducked past them into the hall. His nerves were still wired like a cat on a hot tin roof, his hands darting at this and that, tugging his clothes straight and his hair back, and in the same motion rubbing his fingers over his beard in shock or dismay.

"Oh yes you can!" called Thomas, following. "Poor Jean here was just about ready to shoot a man for you. I think you owe us something"

Jean tried to wave him down as she trailed last, after all she really was okay, and nobody got hurt in the end. But then she was also curious and worried, for what if Li had been in the room, or if the soldier had taken up Jean's suggestion to shoot them all, or what if her own finger had accidentally shot Lucien where he stood. She was not proficient in hand guns, and it had been a while since she'd had to use a shotgun on the farm, and her hands were still shaking from the whole thing.

Lucien's face had closed off again as he stood in the hall with his hand on his hips, staring off into space. Then he turned on his heal and walked to the kitchen, Thomas and Jean following on as Thomas' rage continued to build at his son's lack of answer.

Lucien stopped by the table and turned back to face them. He obviously only meant to move this conversation away from the foot of the stairs, where their voices might carry.

"There are some things I don't like to talk about", he said. "And there are some things I _can't_ talk about"

He met his father's eyes and begged him to understand. Lucien was private about his past, but if it really counted, or if he felt it could help, he was also honest. The fact he couldn't be honest about this made Thomas put away some of his anger. Lucien wasn't being reticent and stubborn for the sake of pride; it was for their own good that they not know who that man was or what he wanted.

Thomas was deeply unhappy with that answer, but he knew what it meant to return from war and not be able to share what had happened. This was not just pain and suffering that Lucien was covering up, it was information. There were only so many types of roles or responsibilities that would cause a stranger to try and recruit him back by breaking and entering. Thomas hated that there were things he couldn't help with, or fix, but he also knew he had to accept that answer for the moment. He had seen enough in his life and through two wars to know some things could never be fixed by sharing them with innocents back home.

"I'm going to go call Doug Ashby", he said lowly, and then retreated back to the study.

Once he was out of sight, Lucien turned to Jean. "Are you alright?"

His voice, which only a moment ago had been hard and certain, was now as gentle as a feather. His hand reached out to her and caressed her arm while his eyes sought out hers with the deepest sincerity. It was this Lucien that made her wonder, for he was so tender and so heartfelt she could quite easily let herself fall apart from the stress of it all, certain that if she wept against him he would obligingly hold her tight. But she wouldn't let herself do that just yet, and besides, her hands hadn't stopped shaking.

"Yes", she gasped, schooling herself. "Tea, I think"

Lucien let her step away only because he knew her well enough now to know she needed space to sort herself out. Crowding would only make things worse. He helped her prepare a pot of tea in silence, by which time Thomas had returned from the study, his mood only marginally better.

"Doug Ashby is going to send a man around first thing tomorrow to take photos and search for evidence", he said as he stepped into the kitchen. "So nobody go in there until that's done"

"He won't find anything", Lucien replied softly, knowingly. There was no humour in him at all.

"Yes. I did intimate as much to Doug. But we will still go through the motions"

Lucien only nodded. Thomas was still livid, and Lucien was in no mood to provoke him further, and if his father wanted to have this incident logged with the police then so be it, but as far as Lucien was concerned the conversation was over for now. Whoever sent that man would inevitably try again, but next time it would be a different man, in a different way, and certainly not through the window at night.

"Is my room safe to sleep in tonight?" snipped Thomas at him as he prepared a cup of tea.

Lucien took a deep breath and steadied himself before answering, with as much forced politeness as could be mustered, "I don't think anyone will be back tonight"

"Very well. Then I will take my tea in my room. Goodnight to you both"

And then he was gone, in what could only be described as a huff.

Jean, who hadn't said a word, finally looked up from her own cup in order to watch Lucien. He wasn't reacting the way he did in the beginning, when he and Thomas were always arguing. The silence in him scared her though, for he seemed… worried. Lucien had shown a great many sides of himself, but worried was never something she associated with him. The encounter had clearly startled him all the same, and despite her heroics Jean knew it was sheer dumb luck that brought about a good outcome. Any number of things could have gone wrong, and there would still be cleaning up to do tomorrow and statements to make, though what she was expected to say for herself was anyone's guess. Lucien must have been thinking the same thing.

He shook himself out of it to look at Jean once more. She could feel the expression on her face, but she couldn't school it.

"I can't tell you", he said to her, his eyes so very apologetic.

"I know", she said back just as quickly. For she did. But that wasn't the problem, and they both understood that next time might not be so lucky. She was in no mood to point that out to him, but neither could she tear her eyes away. He looked about the room for a moment before coming back to Jean with a baffled look on his face.

"What?"

Her frown deepened. "You do worry me", she said, and then took a sip of her hot tea as she watched him over the cup, and they didn't say much of anything after that.


End file.
